


What might have been lost

by weweretold



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Awkward Conversations, Bisexuality, But dragging them through a lot of shit before we get to that point, Coming Out, Divorce, Emotional Infidelity, Eventual First kiss, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Happy Ending, First Kiss, Fluff, Forbidden Love, Friends to Lovers, Homosexuality, John trying to do the right thing, Kissing, Lots of kissing, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Mary is Not Nice, Masturbation, Mild Sexual Content, Mutual Pining, Pining, Romantic Fluff, Sexual Tension, She's also not a straight-up villain, Sorry Not Sorry, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, post-S3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 23:19:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 30,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9350672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weweretold/pseuds/weweretold
Summary: For this work, please disregard the entirety of S4. John and Mary are still married, but unhappily, and John and Sherlock are pining for each other. Then, they run into someone from Sherlock’s past, causing them to talk about their feelings. A little. Only a little. Because what’s the use of being in love with your friend if you’ve promised to do everything to make your marriage work?At the start of this story, it’s nine months after the end of S3. John and Sherlock have just finished tying up the loose ends of Moriarty’s legacy, a trail of booby traps that he set up before his death. Now that Moriarty is definitely out of the picture, Sherlock and John are finally able to get back to a more or less regular life of crime-solving. Sherlock is still living alone in Baker Street, and John and Mary are doing their best to make their marriage work. Their baby, Olivia, is about seven months old.





	1. Victor / A Tuesday afternoon in early October

**Author's Note:**

> For the purposes of this fic, please disregard the entirety of Season 4.
> 
> This is only semi-beta'd (by the wonderful hubblegleeflower!) and could probably improve more if I gave it more time. However, after the torture that was Season 4, I really wanted to send something happy out there, so you're getting this early, all of it in one go, and it's probably imperfect, but at least it ends happy. That's what I feel like the fandom needs right now: something that's difficult-but-eventually-REALLY-fluffy, and unequivocally Johnlocky, with a happy ending.
> 
> The title is a line from Bon Iver's [The Wolves (Act I & II)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z9lrVZdaluk).

It was the time of year when the light could turn from dusk to dark in a matter of minutes, and on this particular October Tuesday, the effect was only strengthened by the rain turning from drizzle to downpour.

The space around the small pub table was cramped, and when John and Sherlock tried to fold themselves into their chairs, there was a small war of knees and ankles below the table before they managed to find an arrangement that suited them both. Chuckling and looking up, John found Sherlock’s face closer than he’d expected. He took a sharp inhale of breath, his heart beating fast in his throat.

He looked away to avoid Sherlock’s inquisitive gaze, but couldn’t help smiling to himself. God, he was being ridiculous. He’d often felt flustered by Sherlock’s close presence, but previously, he’d have chalked it up to their brief sprint through the rain only minutes ago, or found some other excuse. It was only recently that he’d allowed himself to realise that he felt more for his former flatmate than only friendship.

Which was absolutely fine. A harmless crush on a friend. It had cleared the air a bit for himself, accepting that he had a crush on a man, even though he’d never tell anyone else. Even admitting it to himself was something he never would have thought he’d dare.

He was roused from his thoughts by a waiter who set a pint of lager on the table in front of John and a pint of cider for Sherlock.

“It’s been a while, Mr Holmes,” the man said, “but I assumed you’d like the usual for you and your date.”

“No, I…” Sherlock hesitated and flashed an apologetic grin at John, who shrugged. He didn’t feel threatened by the insinuations. He had a wife, after all, and a child. He didn’t need to reassert anything.

Sherlock looked up at the waiter. “Thank you.” He drew his face into an artificial smile until the waiter left, and then looked back at John and rolled his eyes.

It was a choice between an eye roll and a giggle for John, and something inside him made the decision to laugh rather than be annoyed. “It really is back to normal then, isn’t it? Cheers.”

They clinked their glasses together, and John looked around the pub while he drank down a few gulps of the cool lager. It was smooth and slightly bitter against John’s tongue, a welcome coolness after a hard day’s work, and he drank down a few gulps before setting the glass down on the wooden table.

Although the pub was completely packed with a five o’clock crowd, Sherlock had managed to free one of the small tables near the window by whispering a few sentences into the ear of woman sitting there with a male companion, causing a short argument and their subsequent departure. John had frowned at Sherlock and shot an apologetic smile at the departing couple, but truth be told, he was happy to sit down. He hadn’t slept through the night since Olivia was born, and after a day of running around London, it was only adrenaline that was holding him upright.

The case had been rather boring, actually, something mundane concerning a jealous ex. But that only served to make it more special: it had been their first regular case after months of slogging through Moriarty’s legacy. John was quite sure that Sherlock had only needed a few minutes to solve today’s case, but neither of them had seemed willing to bring the day to a close, so they’d dragged it out for hours, gathering superfluous evidence until the Met had almost solved the case themselves. At that point, a thin sheet of rain and a slate grey sky as far as the eye could see had been enough of an excuse for them to make a run for the nearest pub.

“Not really, is it?” Sherlock said. He had taken his coat off and laid it across the windowsill. His hair was still beaded with rain, his eyes darker than usual in the dim, dusky light.

“Sorry, what?” Deep in thought, John had completely lost the train of their conversation.

“Back to normal. It’s not really.”

“It is, sort of. Going on cases, running around London together.” Even just describing their joint outings brought back the light, floating feeling in John’s stomach. God, this day hadn’t even ended and already he couldn’t wait for their next case together.

“Except you’ve got this whole new life going on, so there’s just a fraction of it left for me.” Sherlock inhaled sharply and clamped his mouth shut, as if his own brusque assertion had surprised even himself. His eyes darted left to right for a second before settling on the crowd, a casual expression drawing over his face again.

John pursed his lips. This sounded like an accusation. “Well, yeah. I’ve got my family now. But we’ve both had some time to get used to it, right? And you always did seem to prefer being alone.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, head still turned away from John, a clear signal of John’s apparent ignorance.

“What?” John pressed on. “We just worked together almost every day for about nine months.”

Sherlock whipped his head back around to John. “Yes, and when the biggest case of our lives was finished, you retreated back to your little flat–” he spat out the consonants as if they were filthy, “–and you didn’t come out for a week.”

John frowned and shook his head. “I was spending time with my family, Sherlock. After working back-to-back for the better part of a year, I finally had time to spend a few days in succession with my wife and my baby. It was time for a bit of a vacation.”

“A vacation.”

John shrugged. “Sort of.”

Sherlock drew his mouth into a sharp smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I suppose you’ll want to get back home soon, then. Don’t want to leave the wife waiting.”

“Sherlock.” John tried to make his eyes say something he couldn’t put into words. _I miss you when you’re not around_ , he wanted to say, _but it would be suspicious –_ no, _improper_ , he corrected himself mentally – _to spend more time with you than with my wife_. He settled for a forced smile. “I’m sorry I disappeared. I’m glad we spent today together. And I’m not ready for the day to end just yet.”

“Don’t stay on my behalf, John.” Sherlock’s voice was cold.

It was one of Sherlock’s moods again, apparently. John had found that it usually worked to be really clear and simple with him, not to pressure or guilt him into anything.

“If you want me to go,” he said, “I’ll go. But I’d rather stay.”

Sherlock took a sip of his cider, keeping his eyes on his glass after he’d carefully set it back down on the table. “I wouldn’t want to…” He looked up at John, his brow furrowed. It seemed like he was going to say something, but then he drew his face into a small smile. “No. It’s fine if you stay.”

“What were you going to say?”

Sherlock shook his head minutely. “Nothing.”

John shrugged and took another sip of his pint. He leaned back in his chair, happy to have resolved that tiny argument. “This is a nice place. Cosy. So you’ve been here before, then?”

“Years ago. I’m surprised the waiter remembered.”

John chuckled. “You do tend to leave an impression.”

He tried to study Sherlock’s face, which had settled into a more relaxed expression, without lingering too long. Sherlock’s features were made even sharper by the flicker of the candle on their table. It was completely dark outside now, the rain battering the window.

“We may be stuck here for a while,” John said, nodding his head towards the window.

“You do realise that London has a perfectly decent cab system.”

“It really seems like you’re trying to get me out of here, Sherlock.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and muttered, “Oh, shut up,” but his eyes were warm and one of the corners of his mouth twitched into a half-smile.

Smiling to himself, John fished his phone out of his pocket to check the weather forecast. Perhaps he should go home, but he’d rather eat something. The few gulps of beer had already made his head feel a bit unstable on his shoulders. Of course Sherlock had found it unnecessary to stop for lunch, and the alcohol on John’s empty stomach seemed to have at least double its usual effect. When John looked back up from his weather app, Sherlock’s eyes were still on him, just for a moment, before he looked away.

“Rain seems to stay for a while,” John said. “How about dinner? I’m starving.” He tipped his head to the side. “I know Your Highness hasn’t–”

“Actually,” Sherlock interrupted, peering over at the bar, “I could eat something. Judging from the barmaid’s demeanour and the amount of dust on the bottles behind the bar, the pies should be at least decent.”

John chuckled. “What?” Before Sherlock took the chance to spend the better part of the next minute laying out a deduction, John continued, “No, never mind. Just the fact that you’re actually admitting to have an appetite means that it really is a special occasion. I’ll go order something, okay?”

When John turned back from the bar a few minutes later, another man was sitting in his chair, with his back to where John was standing. John raised his eyebrows. Sherlock wasn’t the chatty type, and a social call seemed unlikely. A client? Here and now?

John was about to make way for their table, ready to reassert his presence and shoulder himself into the conversation, but he held back when he saw the stranger’s hand on Sherlock’s arm. When the stranger moved aside a bit, John caught a glimpse of Sherlock’s face, and flinched at Sherlock’s expression. It reminded him of that bizarre moment when he had accidentally deduced Mary’s pregnancy, or perhaps of a few months later, when he’d told John that his wife was not who he thought she was. An uncharacteristic mixture of desolation, remorse, and affection.

John tried to edge closer to the table without being noticed, in the hope of listening in on the conversation, but it only took a few seconds for Sherlock to look up and catch his eye. Drawing his face into a tense smile, Sherlock pulled his arm out of the other man’s grasp. While John strode over to the table, the stranger turned around, raised his eyebrows when he saw John walking over, and turned back to Sherlock, who shook his head at something the stranger said.

When John reached the table, the stranger got up and held out his hand. “Hey, hello.” He smiled. “Victor.”

His tone was expectant, as if John should know who he was, and John racked his brain for an earlier mention of someone with that name. A quick glance sideways only revealed Sherlock’s slightly panicked expression, which was no help at all.

“John Watson.” He didn’t smile as he shook Victor’s hand.

Victor’s strong and warm handshake seemed fitting with his appearance, which struck John as similar to his own, except taller, stockier, and a few years younger.

“I, er.” Victor hesitated, his gaze traveling over John’s features. “I see Sherlock has done well for himself.”

Oh, joy. The second time in about fifteen minutes that they were mistaken for a couple.

John dismissed it with a shake of his head and asked, “So, how do you two know each other? Is it a work thing?”

Victor frowned in confusion. “Er, hasn’t–”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Victor was just leaving. John and I have–” a minute hesitation, “–work matters to discuss.”

Victor scoffed and looked at John with a conspiratorial look of confusion, as if to say _What’s he on about?_ , but John just shrugged. Something between Sherlock and Victor seemed off, and John would always choose Sherlock’s side, always.

A few seconds passed, in which Victor’s gaze turned confused, then rejected. “All right. I’ll be off then.” His gaze shifted between John and Sherlock, until after a few seconds he nodded in reluctant acceptance. “It was nice to meet you, John, and I wish you two all the best.” He turned to look at Sherlock and hesitated for a moment. “I’m sorry. Again. And I–” he glanced at John, “–I sort of wish things were different.”

He stood there for a few seconds, gazing at John and looking stricken, and then closed his mouth abruptly and disappeared into the crowd.

Hardly the strangest thing John had seen since he was friends with Sherlock, but definitely one of the stranger ones. He slid into the chair previously occupied by Victor.

“Well, then. Friend of yours?”

Sherlock snatched his cider from the table and took a gulp. “No.” His tone was defensive.

“Enemy?”

Sherlock cast a glance towards the ceiling, considering. “In a way.”

“Oh? One of Mycroft’s minions?”

Sherlock scoffed.

“Come on,” John said, “don’t be so mysterious about it, who was he?”

“No one.”

“Hm, didn’t look like no one.” John really didn’t want to push too far, but the more Sherlock was deflecting he questions, the more curious he was getting. Especially Victor’s hand on Sherlock’s arm, which had been decidedly atypical, and both their flustered reactions.

“Shut up, John,” Sherlock snapped. “No one you should concern yourself with.” After a brief frown, he schooled his features back into his usual expression of cold detachment. “Looks like the owner of this place launders money. You think we should confront him?”

“Now you’re just changing the subject.”

“John.” Sherlock’s tone was ominous.

“All right, all right.” John raised his hands, palms towards Sherlock, in a placating gesture. He fished his phone out of his pocket. “Hang on, I’ll have to let Mary know I’m not eating at home.”

 _I’m afraid this is running longer than I expected_ , he typed. _I’ll be home late. Sorry._

If he were completely honest with himself, he was glad to stay out of the house a bit longer. It had mostly been Mary who had guilted him into staying home for a week after he and Sherlock had managed to take down the rest of Moriarty’s network, and he’d started getting antsy after a day or two without Sherlock’s company.

But he’d managed, because he was a husband and a father now. Being with his family, taking care of them, was his most important job now. So he tried not to be moody and irritable, even though there were days when Mary’s very presence grated on him. All through it, he’d told himself it was just a sort of hangover from all those adrenaline-filled months chasing down Moriarty’s network. And it didn’t help either that Olivia still had trouble sleeping. Prolonged lack of sleep was enough to get anyone on their knees.

After pressing ‘send’, John put his phone back in his pocket. “All done,” he said, pulling his mouth into a self-deprecating grin. “Being as reliable a family man as I can.”

He tried to not think too much about the end of the evening, and going home to Mary, and her accusing questions, and the shield he’d have to draw up again.

“You seem to be taking up the job well.” John couldn’t tell if Sherlock’s tone was teasing, surprised, or skeptical. “You always were the responsible one.”

“As long as you don’t actively keep me from my duties.” John smiled. “But yeah, it’s nice, actually. Things are calming down a bit. Olivia’s almost eight months old. I’m starting to feel like a person again.”

Meanwhile, the past eight months had been filled with more fights with his wife and less undisturbed nights than he had ever expected, but that wasn’t something Sherlock had to know. On the other hand, it wasn’t unlikely that Sherlock had already deduced as much from the particular pattern of John’s wrinkles and the shape of the circles under his eyes, or something.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “You don’t like calm.”

“Yeah, okay.” John shrugged. “Different kind of calm. It’s just good to be able to go on cases again like we used to. Even if it’s not as often as I’d like.”

Sherlock was silent, drawing his fingers along the rim of his glass.

In their seconds of silence, John’s mind went back to how Victor and Sherlock had interacted. There was something about the sad gazes and the peculiar expressions that tugged at the edges of John’s thoughts. He tried to remember what they’d said exactly. Victor had apologised, said that he’d wanted things to be different. His tone had reminded John of… Of what, exactly?

John’s mind helpfully kept on supplying the image of Victor’s hand on Sherlock’s arm. It had seemed intimate, but John found it hard to couple that with the Sherlock he knew, who had never been susceptible to flirting, except for manipulative purposes.

A thought hit John out of nowhere. Victor’s familiarity with Sherlock… Was he a previous colleague? Friend, even? Previous version of John?

John thought back to when Sherlock had met James Sholto, John’s ex-commander. Yes, perhaps on first sight there’d been an intimacy in their demeanour as well, and Sherlock had definitely seemed jealous. Perhaps the tables were turned now.

John shook his head lightly in an attempt to clear it of these thoughts. “I am sorry, you know,” he said. “That I can’t come along all the time anymore. If you’d prefer to find a new colleague who’s available more often, I understand.” He grimaced and took a gulp of his beer to push away the unsettling impression that he was suggesting a replacement for himself.

Sherlock scoffed. “You’re funny.” It sounded like an insult, but a soft one.

“What?”

“Come on. As if I could ever find another idiot simple enough to spend time with me out of their own volition, yet not so simple that they’re completely intolerable.”

Wait, was that one of Sherlock’s typical thinly veiled insult-slash-compliments? John chuckled, and held up his hands. “I’m not even going to respond to that.”

“I think you just did.” Sherlock’s frown made way for a small smile, and his eyes found John’s, and held them, for seconds.

“All right, no new colleague then.” Some sort of tension fell away from John’s chest. No replacement for him. He scoffed at himself, chiding himself for being so possessive of Sherlock when John was the one who had found another partner on the side.

John averted his eyes and inhaled deeply, smile falling from his face. Fuck. That was definitely not how one should think about one’s wife. Mary should always be his number one. And Sherlock should have his own number one as well. There was only place for one number one in everyone’s life, and it was wrong to claim that position from two people.

“I’m fine working alone, John. Your presence is infinitely helpful, but if you need to have,” Sherlock raised his hands and waved his fingers in a gesture that looked vaguely as if he were performing a magic spell, “a normal life on the side, then by all means.”

“Ah, it’s not too bad, though. You should try it,” John said. It was half a joke, half a futile probe into Sherlock’s wants and needs, which he felt like he’d never completely understand.

“John.” Sherlock swallowed another sip of his cider and shook his head, mouth pulled into a defiant grin. “I know how it works. And I know it’s not for me.”

John scoffed. “Oh, right. I’m sure you’ve got plenty of…”

 _Oh._ John’s voice trailed off as the puzzle pieces clicked together in his head. Was this how Sherlock felt whenever he’d managed a successful deduction? He leaned back in his chair, eyes half focused on Sherlock, while his mind quickly went back over the past twenty minutes.

The fact that Sherlock seemed to know Victor from this pub. The waiter assuming that Sherlock and John were a couple. Victor’s assumption that John knew who he was. Sherlock’s awkwardness. Victor’s sadness. Sherlock’s earlier dismissals of relationships, which had always seemed forced. The way Victor had assumed they were a couple. The way practically everyone Sherlock knew had assumed they were a couple.

Sherlock _had_ been in relationships before. With men. With Victor.

John hesitated. It was difficult to put it into words. “No.” The word spilled out of him, more at himself than at Sherlock, and more incredulous than he’d intended. Was he being overly presumptuous? Sherlock had always been adamant about his lack of needs and wants in that area.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “John, look, I can assure you–”

“Sherlock,” John interrupted. “I have to ask.” The words seemed to come more easily when under pressure. “Was he an old boyfriend?”

Sherlock looked at John with wide eyes. A moment passed.

When Sherlock didn’t answer, John continued, “There are some things I can figure out for myself. Suppose I’ve learnt a thing or two over the past few years.”

Sherlock folded his lips between his teeth as he closed his mouth. He looked down at the table, then up at John. An inhale. “If you must know, yes.” His voice sounded imperious, as if to say _don’t you dare mock me for this_. “Victor is my ex-boyfriend.”

“Oh.” John’s face did something between a smile and a frown. “Really?”

“You’ve got questions.”

“Excellent deduction.” John huffed a laugh. God, where to start? “I thought you were married to your work.”

Sherlock blinked rapidly, silent for a few seconds. “Basically true.” He took a large sip from his cider and carefully set the glass back down on the table. “My work is more important than…” He hesitated, looking down at his glass, “than most people.”

“And Victor was the exception?”

John swallowed hard. He had always thought he’d been different, that he was the only one who had managed to pierce through Sherlock’s icy exterior and seen his humanity, the warmth and the light that resided inside Sherlock’s mind, below the layers of hostility and aloofness. He’d have to get used to the idea that that wasn’t quite true.

Sherlock pulled up the corners of his mouth in a sharp smile. “After Victor left me, I decided it would be easier to forgo any further romantic attachments, at least as far as they didn’t benefit the work.”

God. Even that term, _romantic attachments_. John looked at Sherlock, trying to make sense of the concept of Sherlock in a relationship, Sherlock with a boyfriend.

“I always thought you’d never done anything,” he said. “With anyone.”

“It is a while ago.”

“Was he your last boyfriend, then? He made you–”

“Yes. Last, and only. John, could we _please_ –”

“Did he hurt you?” John felt his jaw tighten. He’d have to kill any man who had hurt or traumatised Sherlock.

Sherlock scoffed. “No, nothing dramatic like that. It just wasn’t worth it.”

“What do you mean?”

“When is anything worth it? When there are more advantages than disadvantages.” Sherlock exhaled in a sigh. His voice was soft. “In this case, that wasn’t true.”

“It wasn’t good?” John asked. He studied Sherlock’s face. How bad had it been? No physical abuse, apparently, but there’d been something that had turned Sherlock off relationships permanently.

“No. Not good enough. We had some good times at first, but in the end, Victor never did more than tolerate me. I’m not sure why he didn’t break up with me earlier.” Sherlock grimaced. “Well, apart from the obvious sexual benefits.”

John winced. That didn’t sound at all like a healthy relationship. “And you never thought about trying again?”

Sherlock’s chin tensed into something between a shrug and a pout. He looked up at John. “After I finally came to my senses and left him, I decided that one data point would be enough.”

Their eyes locked, and John all but lost himself in a feeling of disappointment. He couldn’t figure out what to say, or even what to feel. There was a curious sensation fluttering in his stomach, something blissful and queasy at the same time. The man sitting three feet away from him, the genius with his sharp body and his plush lips, had an ex-boyfriend. Was not incapable of loving. Was not averse to relationships.

Well, _hadn’t been_ averse to relationships. Until Victor came along. John looked around to where Victor had disappeared in the crowd. He clenched his fists around the sides of his chair, then inhaled deeply.

He looked back at Sherlock, who was staring at the table.

“It’s not always like that, you know,” John said softly.

“It’s fine, John. You know I’m difficult to live with.” Sherlock’s voice quivered on the last few syllables, and he cleared his throat. “It was admirable of Victor to try, but–” he shook his head and looked at John, “–love seems to be the one topic in which I’m sadly lacking. I’ve long accepted that my talents lie in other areas.”

“Come on. We lived together for years. And I enjoyed that time. I really did.”

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. “I don’t need your sympathy. Honestly, it’s fine. I’ve simply chosen not to engage in any of that–” he waved his hands around, “–physical, messy, emotional drivel.”

“It’s not all drivel, if you do it right.” John hadn’t intended to sound so defensive.

“Would all your ex-girlfriends say the same?” Sherlock’s smile was mocking, playful.

John scoffed. “What? I’m good at relationships, you know.”

“Oh, sure,” Sherlock said. “All of your previous–”

“Honestly, Sherlock.” John interrupted, holding up a finger in authority. Sherlock’s words felt like a challenge, and the liquid courage – John was surprised to find his pint mostly finished already – had emboldened him. “Apparently I’m doing something right, because I found someone who was willing to marry me, and who went to great lengths to convince me to stay, after she’d…” He trailed off. _After we had discovered her deception. After it had turned out she’d lied to me from the start._ He averted his gaze, cleared his throat, searched for words. “Well. I’m making it work.”

Sherlock looked at him, silent for a few seconds, then asked, “And you’re happy?”

John did his best to keep his face relaxed. “Yes, of course.” Sherlock did always seem to read his mind in moments like these.

“Okay. Good.”

John did his best to ignore the fact that Sherlock’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.


	2. Images / The early hours of a Wednesday in early October

It was past midnight when John unlocked the door to his house. He’d briefly considered staying in his old room at Baker Street, but he was careful not to do anything to upset Mary. He had already stayed out all night, and he wasn’t sure how she would react to that.

Mary wasn’t a bad person, John reminded himself. She was never dangerous or abusive with him or Olivia, she was just unpredictable in her fits of anger. And he could relate – married life turned out to be much harder than he’d expected. He finally understood all of his parents’ shouting matches, the tense atmosphere that had run through all of his childhood and that had been part of the reason he’d gone off and joined the army after medical school.

Fortunately, they still had one perfect thing in their lives. John sat down in the rocking chair next to Olivia’s bed. He stroked her hair and marveled at her button nose and her hands, which were still so tiny, although they seemed to grow by the day. He switched off the baby monitor and picked her up from her cot, careful not to wake her, and leaned back in the chair, cradling her on his chest. She softly snored once, twice, then settled in and went back to sleep.

No, his and Mary’s life was good. It was comfortable. John had completely given up his job at the surgery a while ago. They’d become rather famous during the whole Moriarty affair, and _The Strand Online_ had offered him a weekly column for a decent fee that meant he wasn’t just slowly eating up his savings. Those savings were considerable: the bounty on Moriarty’s head enabled him to support himself financially for the rest of his life, plus a comfortable allowance for Olivia when the time would come.

After her maternity leave, Mary had gone back to working at the surgery three days a week. John had asked her if she wouldn’t like to stay home, because he was more than able to take care of the three of them, but she’d declined, wanting to have her own working life. They had a flexible contract with an excellent nursery around the corner – Mycroft might have had something to do with their being able to skip the waiting list – so that they could drop Olivia off any time when they were both working.

It was good. It was fine. John pressed a kiss to Olivia’s head. Her smell and the infinite softness of her hair made it all worthwhile. Olivia was what got him through it all. Cradling her against him, he slipped into a light but comfortable sleep, dotted with vague thoughts of chasing criminals with his best friend.

It was still completely dark when John awakened by Olivia fussing against him. He blinked himself awake, and almost lost his balance when he belatedly realised he was in a rocking chair. His sudden movement startled Olivia, who began whimpering.

“No, no, shh,” John said softly into Olivia’s hair as he started rocking her. Shit, what time was it? Olivia was blinking and frowning, half awake, and mouthed at John’s shirt. Time for a midnight snack, perhaps.

John secured her against his shoulder, got up from the chair – more carefully, this time – and walked out into the kitchen. Bloody half three in the morning, according to the microwave clock. Moving on autopilot, he grabbed a bottle of breast milk from the fridge and placed it into the microwave. While it warmed up, he walked over to the kitchen window, Olivia still whimpering softly against his shoulder, and drew a hand over his face. What day was it? Tuesday? Wednesday? Yeah, Wednesday. Yesterday was Tuesday, when he and Sherlock had run across London together.

A smile crept up on his face. It had been a good day, full of possibilities and excitement, like the old days. John wasn’t sure if he should feel awkward about how his heart kept on leaping into his throat when Sherlock looked at him in a particular way. But other people had crushes on their colleagues as well, right? Completely harmless. Sherlock didn’t do those things anyway. Well, not _anymore_ , anyway.

When the microwave pinged, he tested the temperature of the milk on the inside of his elbow and sat down on the couch to feed Olivia, with a tiny thrill of victory because he’d managed to get the bottle ready before she’d started crying.

John bit his lip, thinking about Sherlock’s revelations about his ex-boyfriend. He’d never even had the slightest clue that Sherlock had had a romantic relationship before.

John had always dismissed his own sexual thoughts of Sherlock by mentally pointing out to himself that Sherlock didn’t do those things, that he didn’t feel things that way. He had never allowed his feelings for Sherlock to be anything more than a harmless crush, because there’d be no chance that anything would happen between them. Because Sherlock didn’t have those sort of feelings. Because Sherlock was married to his work.

It was a strange thing, to realise that that wasn’t true. That Sherlock fancied blokes, in fact. If John had known all those years ago that Sherlock was gay, their lives might have been completely different. Of course Sherlock might not even have been attracted him, but John would have definitely not blown him off, protested against people calling them a couple… His heart dropped. Fuck, had he seemed or acted homophobic around Sherlock before? Was that why Sherlock had been so hesitant to talk about his relationship with Victor?

It wasn’t all so simple, though. The thing was, of course, that it had taken John years to realise that he had feelings for Sherlock. That he had a _crush_ on Sherlock, he corrected himself. Regardless, it hadn’t been until after Sherlock had jumped from a roof and disappeared from his life that John had come to accept that he’d felt more for his best friend than only friendship. It had been the only way to make sense of the grief he felt about Sherlock’s death, the grief that had made him feel physically sore and bruised every moment of every day, for the better part of two years.

Olivia had finished drinking by now, and her eyes were fluttering closed again. John set the bottle aside before slouching down on the couch and cradling her into his arms.

Somehow, he’d emerged from that darkest period of his life with a girlfriend. And when Sherlock had come back from the dead, John had been too bloody angry to tell Sherlock that he loved him – no, goddammit, that he had a _crush_ on him. In a way, John had wanted to punish Sherlock for letting him believe he was dead for two fucking years of his life. And he’d wanted to punish himself, for waiting too long to realise he’d had feelings for Sherlock, and for having believed that Sherlock was really gone, and for moving on.

So he had persevered with Mary – not in the least because Sherlock had been surprisingly supportive of their relationship – and then there’d been a breathless sprint of the wedding, Magnussen, Sherlock’s aborted exile, Moriarty’s apparent return, Olivia’s birth, the dismantling of Moriarty’s legacy, and there’d been neither time nor opportunity to even consider any of it anymore.

It was almost funny, how the universe seemed to ensure that there had never been any possibility for John to act upon his feelings for Sherlock. When they’d first met, John hadn’t realised that he even had such feelings. When he accepted that he did, Sherlock had been gone. Then, Sherlock’s return had almost perfectly coincided with John’s proposal to Mary. And it was only after Olivia was born, solidifying John’s relationship with Mary, that he had found out that Sherlock was gay.

In a way, though, it made things simpler. John could just continue working on and improving his relationship with Mary, and have a friendship and harmless crush on the side. He should feel lucky.

Apparently John fell asleep somewhere in the middle of his train of thought, because he was awakened in the dim morning light by Mary pottering about the kitchen. He groaned and stretched a bit, and Olivia awakened with him.

“Hey, good morning,” Mary said, turning around to face him. “I’ll have toast and coffee ready in about two minutes.” She was still in her pyjamas, a mess of blonde curls sticking up around her face, but her eyes were bright and she wore a smile.

“Morning.” John’s voice sounded croaky, and he cleared his throat to rid it of the cobwebs of sleep. “Thanks, that’d be lovely. Did you sleep well?”

She walked over to him and kissed him on the forehead, lifting Olivia out of his arms. “God, I feel about ten years younger. I don’t think I can remember the last time I slept through the night. Thanks for taking care of Olivia tonight, love.”

He smiled back at her. “I figured I’d let you sleep.” He sat up a bit straighter, groaning at the stiffness in his back. “Next time maybe not on the couch, though.”

They ate breakfast together and John told Mary about yesterday’s case. After Mary left for work, John dropped Olivia off at the nursery for a few hours so that he’d have some quiet time to write his column. He had more than enough inspiration this time. Even though yesterday’s case hadn’t been that interesting, the everyday life of London’s most famous detective turned out to fascinate John’s readers most of all.

While he was writing, the thoughts of Sherlock’s relationship with Victor kept creeping back into his mind, and something about it made John feel uneasy. Well, no, not uneasy, per se. It was just strange to think that Sherlock, who always tried to keep himself so far from human emotion, and who seemed more or less naive in the sexual department, had a sexual history.

John swallowed. God, a sexual history. He couldn’t help but wonder. Images of men in sexual positions inconveniently popped up in his mind’s eye. Would Sherlock have been the one on his back, getting fucked by Victor? Or would he be on his knees, fucking Victor from behind? Or would they be languidly stretched out against one another, Sherlock’s long fingers wrapped around both their erections?

Had Sherlock enjoyed sucking Victor’s dick, Victor’s hands in Sherlock’s hair as Sherlock wrapped his tongue around Victor’s erection and swirled wetly around the head? Or had it been the other way around more often, Sherlock’s cock in Victor’s mouth? What sounds had Sherlock made? Soft moans, loud breaths, a mix of the two? Were they the same sounds as when Sherlock pleasured himself? Did he pleasure himself to thoughts of men in sexual positions?

John palmed himself through his jeans, unsurprised to find himself completely hard already. He closed his eyes and reveled in images of Sherlock’s head thrown back, eyes unfocused, mouth agape in pleasure. John unzipped his jeans and took himself in hand, stroking softly as he thought of Sherlock’s naked body, all bone and muscle, cock standing out from a soft nest of dark hair. Sherlock would be so stunning when he gave up control, when he’d open up his mouth to take John’s cock, or the other way around, when he’d fuck John’s mouth.

As John started pumping himself harder, the images in his mind ran over into each other like colours in an aquarel painting, the only clear lines being Sherlock’s long fingers, Sherlock’s face contorted in pleasure, his cock hard and engaged in various sexual acts, tongues, fingers, moans…

John gasped as he spilled over his hand.

It only took about two seconds for reality to hit him like a brick. Oh, fuck. He’d just brought himself off to sexual imagery of his best friend. Even worse: it had made him come harder and quicker than anything he’d ever fantasised about before.

Fuck.


	3. Symmetry / A Thursday in early October

“Here, look at the cuts on his left arm.” Sherlock gestured with his head. He sat kneeled to the side of the body and didn’t move aside, so John had to crouch close to him. John did his best to keep his breathing steady as he pressed against Sherlock to take a good look at the victim’s arm.

Mary was home with Olivia today, leaving John free to go out on a case with Sherlock. She had offered to sleep in the guest room with Olivia last night, leaving John an undisturbed night, in exchange for the night before. John had slept better than he had done in months, but only after he’d masturbated once more over the thought of Sherlock engaged in sexual acts. He’d been careful to spill into a paper napkin so that Mary wouldn’t notice.

 _It’s all fine_ , John had thought when he sank into a deep sleep last night. Now, however, being awake and near Sherlock, the reality of the situation turned out to be somewhat more complicated. It said a lot about John’s familiarity with corpses that he felt less affected by the victim’s mangled body than by Sherlock’s proximity.

For all John tried to focus on the victim’s wounds, Sherlock’s arm was touching his arm, and Sherlock’s thigh was flush against his thigh, even if their bodies were shielded from each other by layers of clothing. The heat of Sherlock’s body, the soft sound of his breath, a hint of his smell over the putrid stink of the room, all fighting for prevalence – and winning, disturbingly – over John’s attempts to study the dead body in front of him.

Finally almost managing to focus on the victim, he felt, rather than saw, Sherlock looking up at his face, and frowning.

Sherlock leaned over and said in a low voice, “What’s going on with you and Mary?” His breath felt hot against John’s cheek.

“What?” It came out louder than John had intended. He cleared his throat and continued, whispering, “Nothing. We’re fine.” He cast a sideways glance at Sherlock, who looked at him intensely from far too close.

“Your shoulders are sagged in a way that indicates guilt, so there’s clearly something weighing on your conscience. Yet, you look more well-rested than you have in months, and your face and eyes clearly show that you had sexual intercourse in the last, hm,” Sherlock narrowed his eyes minutely, “twelve hours. Oh, you’ve not cheated, have you? It’d be disappointingly early in the marriage, compared to national averages.”

John slowly closed his mouth, which must have fallen open during Sherlock’s quickly spoken deductions and hypotheses. He felt a blush creep up on his cheeks, and glanced at Lestrade and his crew, who were hovering near the doorway. “What? No.” John looked back at Sherlock and shook his head. “Of course not.”

Fuck. This was a mess. He should not have let himself think about Sherlock in a sexual way, let alone masturbate to those thoughts. Let alone bloody _twice_ , for fuck’s sake. John felt his blush deepen under Sherlock’s gaze, and he averted his face again.

“Sure.” Sherlock sounded skeptical. “I don’t care. I’m not the one feeling guilty about it.”

“Shut up,” John snapped. If they were ever going to have this conversation, this was neither the time nor the place.

Lestrade cleared his throat. “Boys. May I remind you that this is a case, not a social call. I would appreciate your swift assessment of the cause of death, so that we can clear out the room and I’ll at least have a chance of getting this smell out of my hair before I get home tonight.”

“Strangulation,” Sherlock said, while he stood up and buttoned his long coat.

“Excuse me?” John made a face and struggled to his feet. “You call me all the way over here and you don’t even ask me for my opinion?”

Sherlock scoffed. “I did ask, John, and you hardly reacted. Nothing strange about the cuts, therefore, and since strangulation was the only other viable hypothesis, it wasn’t hard to make the call.”

“I’m sorry, I was a bit distracted.” John grimaced. He paused, clenching and unclenching his hands a few times. “I suppose I should be off, then, having done my questionable duty. Greg, it’s all yours.”

Lestrade moved in with his officers, but before John could turn away towards the door, Sherlock grabbed his arm to stop him. John did his best not to move a muscle when Sherlock stepped closer and narrowed his eyes, instead strengthening his stance and looking at Sherlock, lips pursed and head raised in defiance. He was not attracted to his best friend. There was nothing going on in his mind. Nothing at all.

“Oh.” Sherlock stopped in his tracks and inhaled sharply. “You’re actually bothered by the–”

“Shut up, Sherlock.” John kept his voice low, but his tone resolute. He wasn’t sure what Sherlock was going to say, but it might very well be unsuitable to say in front of a complete police corps. If Sherlock had deduced anything at all about John’s sexual fantasies…

Sherlock stepped back. “What? I’m just–”

“Oi!” Lestrade raised his voice. “If the two of you could continue your bickering outside, please.”

Sherlock clicked his tongue in annoyance and strode towards the back door, dragging John along by the arm he was still holding, the bottom of his Belstaff brushing along John’s calves.

When the door banged shut behind them, they found themselves alone in a neglected garden, the crisp autumn air silent except for the sound of leaves rustling across the long grass.

Sherlock spun John around to face him, then let go of his arm. “If you’re bothered by my sexual orientation, you could have just said so.”

John blinked. “What?” Oh, no. This was infinitely worse than what he’d feared. “Sherlock, no, of course I’m not bothered.” He’d rather have Sherlock deduce his sexual fantasies ten times over than have him think that he was a homophobe.

“Look, you’re obviously uncomfortable around me since I told you about my ex-boyfriend.” Sherlock’s voice was strong, but his eyes fragile. “There’s a tension in your body that wasn’t there before, and the closer we are, the more you’re holding your breath like you’re bracing yourself for something.”

John took a step towards Sherlock, who stepped back to stay out of his reach. “Sherlock. That’s not at all what’s going on.” John sighed and let his arms fall against his sides. How could he tell Sherlock how weird this all felt for him? That it was only uncomfortable because it was all too close, too familiar, too dangerous? “I’d never be bothered by something like that.” He swallowed. “I suppose I know all too well how it feels.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do, Sherlock.” John emphasised each word, holding Sherlock’s gaze.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John for a few seconds before he inhaled sharply. “Oh.” He let his mouth fall open. “This explains so much.” He scoffed, and mumbled, “There’s always something.”

John half-smiled, feeling suddenly nervous. Even though he’d willingly gotten himself into it this time, being deduced by Sherlock was always a bit of a nerve-wracking experience. You never really knew how far his observations would go.

“You’re not bothered by my sexual orientation, you’re just…” Sherlock huffed a laugh and cocked his head to the side. “You have a reputation for being a womaniser, yet while you repeatedly flirted with men in my presence, even with me, you never let yourself go any further. Which obviously draws back to your strict upbringing–”

“What do you know about my upbringing?” John interrupted. He’d never spoken about his youth, not to Sherlock.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Come on, John. You joined the army, of course you had a strict upbringing.” His words were quick and clipped, as always when he spoke aloud a deduction, doing his best to keep up with his rapid thoughts. “Which most likely led to the estrangement and alcoholism of your sister after she came out as a lesbian, which in turn has kept you from coming out of the closet, for fear of the same conclusion. You’re not bothered. It just makes you nervous. You’re…” Here, Sherlock faltered, the frown returning. “Gay?”

Silence.

Sherlock looked at him expectantly.

“This is not an easy thing for me to say. I’ve never…” John made a face. “Okay. I realise this is silly, coming from someone my age, but I’ve never actually said out loud–” he had to force himself to continue, “–that I’m bisexual.”

Sherlock’s face fell, no: softened, his eyebrows raising up into a fragile expression of surprise. “Really?”

John nodded and shrugged. He felt a blush creeping up on his cheeks.

Sherlock’s body relaxed, and he stepped closer to John, laying a hand on his arm. “Thank you.” He spoke carefully. “Thank you for trusting me.”

John looked at him. It was a strange realisation, that they had this in common. “When did you realise you were gay?”

Sherlock shrugged, putting his hands back in his coat pockets. “I’ve always known. You?”

“Hm.” John cleared his throat, wet his lips, perhaps to buy himself time. “More recently.”

“That’s not very specific.”

“Not even when we met. I never really accepted it, anyway. It wasn’t until a few years ago that I realised that I had…” He swallowed. _Feelings for you_ , he’d wanted to say, and he’d only managed to stop himself just in time. “Anyway, I’m rather surprised you noticed all this. This whole flirting with men business… I’d never allowed myself to think seriously about any of that, back then. I think I just made it out to be a joke.”

Sherlock looked at the ground. “You rather did, yes.”

“I’m sorry if that hurt you.”

Sherlock looked back up at him, sorrow etched on his face. He inhaled as if he wanted to say something, but hesitated, and finally seemed to settle on a decision. “I should be off.” He turned around and walked off towards the street, leaving John behind.

John looked at Sherlock’s back moving away, his long coat waving after him. It was hardly a finished conversation, but maybe it was fine. Maybe it was better to leave things unsaid. He’d almost said too much already.

John nodded, more to himself than in answer to anything, then inhaled sharply and hurried after Sherlock. “Hey, hold up. What are your plans?”

Sherlock turned around to face John. “It’s your day off, isn’t it? I imagine you’ll want to spend it with your wife.”

John checked his watch. “You texted me half an hour ago that you needed my urgent assistance on a case. I hardly knew that it would take, what, five minutes? I suppose I could spare some time for a cuppa, if you’re up for it.”

Sherlock seemed to read John’s face for a few seconds, then raised one corner of his mouth in a half-smile and nodded. “Good.”

They took a cab to Baker Street, where John made tea and did his utmost to pretend that everything was normal. Mrs Hudson came upstairs with a tray of biscuits and ended up having a cup of tea with them while scrolling through pictures of Olivia on John’s phone.

Sherlock puttered around the flat and peeked over their shoulders, muttering things like “don’t forget to read her the classics, John,” and “I suppose you’ll insist that we wait with violin lessons until she can walk,” making John and Mrs Hudson giggle and roll their eyes in amusement and affection.

After Mrs Hudson had left for her lunch date with Mrs Turner next door, Sherlock cleaned up the kitchen table while John sat down in his chair, looking at Sherlock and thinking about their earlier conversation.

“Hey, we’re good, right?” John asked.

Sherlock rested his fists on the tabletop and looked up at John. “Hm?”

“Just wanted to make sure that–” John gestured vaguely, “–that what we just discussed, it’s not, I don’t know, strange, or anything.”

Sherlock’s face drew into a guarded expression. “Why would it be strange?”

“I don’t know.” _Because I fantasised about your naked body_ , John thought, but that was about the last thing he was going to say.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, said “Good,” and went back to cleaning up.

John thought back to the first time he’d sat here. He’d already been strangely attracted to Sherlock, even if he’d only seen him about five minutes the day before. Lestrade had barged in and said something about a case, and Sherlock had stormed off, leaving John to feel sorry for himself and his leg.

And like a magical tornado, Sherlock had stormed back in and swept him away to an otherworldly life that he’d only waken up from years later, over Sherlock’s bleeding body on the pavement.

He still yearned for the time when they lived together in 221B, every now and then. No, who was he kidding? He yearned for it most of the time. But he couldn’t get it back now, not completely. He was married, he was a father, and that was the life he had chosen for himself. Like a good man, he was committing to raising a family.

It turned out he and his best friend were both attracted to men. So what? Plenty of people had best friends with whom they could theoretically be romantically involved. Platonic friendships were real, and they were good.

Theirs was a good friendship, and it would stay a good friendship, if it was the last thing John would do.


	4. Reconsidering / A Friday in late October

John was so relieved that their revelations changed nothing in their friendship that he did everything he could to show Sherlock how much he appreciated him, and Sherlock seemed to respond in kind. The changes were small. Maybe John touched Sherlock a tiny bit more often, or a tiny bit longer. Maybe Sherlock stood just a tad closer to John than he had done previously. Maybe their gazes lingered slightly longer than before.

But that was it. Until, weeks later, after a rather exhilarating case, they came back to 221B, and fell against the wall in the hallway, laughing, just like they’d done years earlier. Sherlock’s arm was pressed against John’s, and when John looked over at Sherlock, he couldn’t hide his fond expression.

“God, that was amazing, Sherlock.”

Sherlock half-turned towards him, his face lit up by a broad smile. “It rather was.”

John let his fingers brush against Sherlock’s, and a bolt of adrenaline shot through his chest when Sherlock answered his touch by moving his fingers against John’s.

“Come upstairs,” Sherlock said. “I’ve got a bottle of whisky I’ve been saving for occasions like this.”

“Occasions like what?” John asked when he climbed the steps after Sherlock.

Sherlock didn’t answer, but closed the door behind them and shucked off his long coat. He ambled over to the kitchen to fetch glasses and a bottle. John stood in the middle of the living room for a few seconds, trying to work out what was unusual about all this. What was up with the whisky? What was up with the finger touching?

Well, it wasn’t as if anything was happening, or going to happen, he reminded himself. It was good that they were comfortable with each other again. If this was as far as anything would go, it was fine.

He was roused from his thoughts by Sherlock stepping up next to him and handing him a glass with a generous amount of whisky. Their fingers brushed against each other when Sherlock handed him the glass.

“Cheers,” said Sherlock, his eyes warm on John’s.

They clinked glasses.

“Cheers, Sherlock. Thanks.”

They both drank from their glasses, eyes locked. It was warm, all of a sudden, there in the middle of the living room, the two of them together, alone. John’s chest felt like it had an air balloon in its centre, and he averted his gaze.

Was this okay? Yeah, sure. Just standing around with an old friend, celebrating a finished case.

John let his body lean slightly closer to Sherlock’s, and he might be mistaken, but it seemed like Sherlock was doing the same.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice sounded closer than John had expected.

“Mmm?”

“The fact that you’ve never told anyone that you’re bisexual, does that mean you’ve never had sexual relations with a man?”

John swallowed. “It does.” He let his eyes flutter over Sherlock’s face for a second, then looked back down at his drink. The air was thick between them.

Sherlock inhaled audibly, and then asked, in a soft voice, “Would you ever want to?”

Wait, what did that mean? Was it an invitation? Was it just a question, or was it an overture for something more, or a probe into John’s fantasies, or…

John tried to form rational thoughts, because everything inside him screamed _oh, god, yes_ , but there was a tinny voice somewhere that said, _no, you can’t_ , and it took him a few seconds to work out that that was because he was bloody fucking married.

Sherlock said, “Because if you–”

“No,” John interrupted. He hesitated, and then managed to continue, “I don’t think so. Since I’m. You know.” A pause. He wet his lips. “Married.”

Sherlock’s body shifted. “Of course.”

To prevent himself from saying all the wrong things, John blurted out, “How about you?” It was something he’d been wondering about. “Were there ever any moments when you considered, er, reconsidering?” He tried to make the question sound casual.

“Reconsidering?”

There was no way back now. “Your decision to be celibate.”

Sherlock looked at the floor and hesitated for a few seconds. “Perhaps.”

“Oh?” John’s mouth was suddenly dry, and he took another sip of his whisky.

“Well, back when we were living together, I, er.” Sherlock looked up at John’s face. “If I’d had any suspicion that you’d theoretically be interested in dating men, it might have been reason for me to reconsider. But since you only…”

The rest of what Sherlock said got lost in a buzz in John’s ears.

Oh.

He frowned, tried to form words that didn’t come.

He swallowed. _Might have been reason for me to reconsider._ A stream of expletives ran itself silently across his mind. Oh, god. It had been him. He’d vaguely fantasised about this moment before, but it was more unsettling than he’d imagined.

Christ. The things they’d thrown away.

No, this was impossible. “This is a joke, right?” The words fell out of John’s mouth before he could stop them. It had to be. He couldn’t believe he’d fallen for it.

Sherlock took a step back, his eyes fragile. “It’s not. But if it makes you happier to believe that it is…”

John wet his lips. God, no. “You mean that if you knew that I actually fancied you…”

“Then I would have.” Sherlock’s voice was soft. “I would have considered making advances.”

John rubbed the back of his neck. Bloody hell.

“Wait,” Sherlock interrupted his thoughts, his voice suddenly sharp, “what do you mean, _actually fancied you_?”

Fucking hell. John smiled awkwardly. He was really fucking this all up, wasn’t he?

“Well, I…” He exhaled hard, trying to expel the air that seemed to have gathered high in his chest. He grabbed his glass harder. “Refill?”

Sherlock nodded urgently. “Please. I’ll…” He emptied his half-full glass of whisky in one long sip. “I’ll have another.”

When John came back with two full glasses, Sherlock was sitting in his chair, eyes locked on the floor between them. John set Sherlock’s glass down on the side table next to him and sat down in his own chair, avoiding Sherlock’s eyes. “Cheers.”

He took a small sip of his whisky and turned the glass around in his fingers a few times, trying to make sense of what Sherlock had said, the words _I would have considered making advances_ running over and over in his mind. What did that even mean, exactly? Sherlock might have felt an inkling of attraction to him, once? Might have wanted to ask him on a date? It might just as well have been based on the fact that they seemed to be able to live together comfortably, that they were able to deal with each other’s habits and idiosyncrasies.

Not that it mattered anymore now. It would be safer not to know. John was a married man, a house owner, and a father, and even if the first two could be undone, Olivia deserved two parents. It was too late to change anything.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, until Sherlock spoke softly. “You were going to say something.”

John took a long drag of his whisky and looked up at Sherlock. “Okay. Yes. Looking back, I did have rather a bit of a crush on you.” He rushed to continue, “Which is of course completely irrelevant now. Since I’m. You know. Married.”

He drew his mouth into a smile, leaned back in his chair, took another drink of his whisky, trying to look relaxed. Okay, that wasn’t too bad. And also, mostly true.

“So,” Sherlock started slowly, “when we met, your interest was at most theoretical, because you would have never considered anything more than semi-subconscious flirting–”

“Look,” John interrupted. “It’s all in the past, okay?” He shook his head, took another sip from his whisky, set it down on the table beside him, held up his hands as if they could stop his mind running away from him. “Both my crush on you, and the fact that you might have considered asking me on a date once. So, we can safely–”

“Yes, obviously,” Sherlock interrupted, tension in his voice. His eyes fluttered back and forth between John’s face and the floor. “It’s of no importance to our current…” He waved his hand, searching for words. “It is a purely theoretical discourse.”

“Yeah.” John nodded firmly. “I mean, I’m married now, so it’s all…” He shrugged, letting his voice trail away.

“Yes. Clearly.”

“It’s just good that we’re getting this all out. Right?”

“Exactly.” Sherlock pulled his mouth into an awkward smile.

John sighed, blowing out through pursed lips. Christ. That was close. He picked up his glass and took another sip. The whisky stung his throat.

They stared at each other for what seemed like minutes, until with a jolt, John realised that this wasn’t his home anymore, that there was a whole world outside this room, and that there were people in that world who were expecting him home tonight.

“I should go,” he said. His voice felt like it was coming from far away.

Sherlock swallowed, and nodded. “Yes.”

John put his coat on and walked slowly down the stairs. He closed the front door behind him, and hesitated. He could go back up, tell Sherlock that he loved him. He could fling himself into Sherlock’s arms and kiss him.

No, he really couldn’t.


	5. Curious / A Friday night in late October

“Hi, darling.” She strained her face upwards to kiss him. “Did you guys have fun?”

“Yeah. Sorry I’m home so late, the case just went on. Did everything go all right?” John gave Mary a peck on the lips and sat down next to her on the couch. It was a familiar scene by now: Mary’s socked feet on the coffee table, next to a half-full cup of tea, a magazine on her lap and the tv on with the sound almost muted.

“Yeah, quiet night in. Olivia’s asleep.” Mary looked at John, affection in her eyes, maybe even pride. “I’m glad you’re going out again, working on cases. It suits you.”

John smiled and hummed in agreement, slouching down on the couch to look at the telly while Mary turned back to her magazine. He reached out for the remote to turn the sound up, but the detective drama couldn’t keep his interest. He kept thinking about the fragile look in Sherlock’s eyes, kept playing parts of the conversation over in his head, hearing his own faltering voice, wincing at the memory of almost going back up after he’d left, to tell Sherlock all about his feelings.

Mary interrupted his thoughts. “Tired?” She smiled at him, equal parts fatigue and warmth in her eyes.

“Yeah, I suppose.” He moved to sit closer to her, slid his arm round her back, and she nestled into the crook of his armpit.

They fell silent again, and John tried to stop replaying his conversation with Sherlock, instead focusing on this moment right here, himself and Mary. They’d worked hard to get here, after all, and he’d promised to do everything in his power to keep it this way.

After the revelation of Mary’s secret identity as an assassin, it had taken him months to be able to look her in the eye again, but at Christmas last year he’d finally managed. After that, they’d started relationship therapy together, and there’d been a lot of arguing, but they were more or less all right now. Well, better than they were, anyway.

They’d vowed to be honest with each other from now on. Much of John’s anger came from the fact that there was still a considerable part of Mary’s life that he would never know anything about, but it hadn’t been the first time that something like this had happened to him. He’d forgiven Sherlock for pretending to be dead. So he had to forgive Mary for keeping secrets from him as well.

Apparently it was completely reasonable that things were kept secret from him for his own safety. Apparently this was what he had become: a liability.

In return, as a stupid and powerless act of vengeance, John had never told Mary about his feelings for Sherlock, or even about his bisexuality. Even when she’d revealed her brief affair with Janine – apparently Mary and Sherlock really _were_ alike in so many ways – he hadn’t responded with much more than a hum and a nod, even though his mind had supplied helpful images that had traveled straight to his groin.

But now, John had told Sherlock about his crush on him. Didn’t that mean he should also tell Mary? John let out a long sigh through pursed lips. He and Sherlock had just talked, in hypothetical terms and with a mutual full awareness of John’s commitment to Mary. It shouldn’t mean anything, so why did it _feel_ so momentous?

“Hey, what’s up?” Mary asked, turning her head to look at him inquisitively.

John cleared his throat. “Oh, er, yeah. I’m… Not sure, actually.”

She sat up to look at him, folding one of her legs under herself. “Is it about the case? What was it about, anyway?”

Oh, it would be so easy to just babble a bit about the case. No difficult revelations. He could just forget his conversation with Sherlock and that would be the end of it. But he wasn’t a coward. He had vowed to make this marriage work, and that meant that he should go all-in, even if everything inside him was screaming to keep quiet, to change the subject.

He steeled himself. “There’s something I should tell you.” Ignoring the expression of worry drawing itself over Mary’s face, he continued, “You know how you told me about your history with Janine?”

“Mm-hm.” She nodded, then widened her eyes. “Oh, God, you haven’t been thinking of me and her, have you?” She bit her lip in a coy smile.

“No, it’s just that… Well, I suppose I should have told you earlier, but I am not completely straight either.” He studied his hands.

A brief silence. “Okay,” Mary said, in a tone like she was expecting more. The age-old journalists’ tactic to elicit more information from interviewees.

Before John could open his mouth to tell her about his feelings for Sherlock, Mary’s probable reaction flashed in front of his eyes. Oh, bloody hell. A revelation like this would certainly end in another fight, and it could set them back months. Their mutual trust was still so fragile.

He’d told her about his bisexuality, he could just leave it at that. A safe strategy. And excusable, too: after Sherlock’s secret, after Mary’s secret, John deserved to keep a secret as well. It was only fair. He couldn’t lose Mary, not now that they had Olivia. A lie for Olivia’s safety, that’s what it was.

So he clenched his lips, looked her in the eye, and shrugged. This was it. This was all he was going to say.

“Okay,” she said again, after a few seconds. “You’re bisexual.”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever…?” She let her voice trail off.

“No, I’ve never actually done anything with a man. And, well, I’m with you now, so.” He shrugged, trying to read her face. “It’s purely hypothetical.” Just like he’d told Sherlock. “I just thought you deserved to know.”

She tilted her head to the side, curious eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me before? Why did it never come up in therapy?”

He thought for a second. “I don’t think I realised it until recently.” That was true as well, if you could call a few years ago ‘recently’.

“Oh? So what made you realise it?”

He hummed in thought, trying to find a good explanation. “Therapy has made me think about myself more, I guess.” Not the reason why he’d become aware of his feelings for Sherlock, but not a complete lie either.

She tilted her head, looking at him with a small smile. “All right.”

“All right? You’re not upset?” He huffed a small laugh.

“No, ‘course I’m not upset. Why did you think I would be?”

“I don’t know.” To be true, though, her volatility made him nervous. The way she lashed out sometimes. Never physically, always with words, veiled accusations, well-disguised put-downs.

She leaned against the back of the couch and pursed her lips, clearly in an attempt to quell a grin. “I hope this isn’t inappropriate, but would you ever, erm.” The skin around her eyes crinkled. “I mean, have you ever thought about… God, this is embarrassing.” She cast her eyes up towards the ceiling. “D’you know I’ve always had this sort of fantasy of bringing another man with us into the bedroom?”

John snorted a laugh, gleeful with relief. Mary punched his shoulder and mumbled, “Oh, come on.”

Well, apparently John’s worries about being a pervert concerning his thoughts about his wife’s same-sex adventures were unfounded, or at least, Mary was equally perverted, if you could even call it that.

“Sorry,” John said. “Wasn’t quite expecting that. You never told me that before.” He couldn’t stifle a giggle, light-headed from the unexpected turn of the conversation. Wow, a conversation where he hadn’t actually bollocksed anything up.

“I wonder if we could… Hm.” She bit her lip. “D’you think Greg would ever be up for something like that?”

“What?” John felt another laugh bubbling up in him. “God, absolutely not.”

“What? He’s quite attractive.” Mary raised an eyebrow. “Possibly out of your league.” She reached for her tea mug and took a sip.

John made a face. “He is quite attractive. He’s also practically a colleague. It would be awkward.”

“Well, if colleagues are off the table, I suppose Sherlock is off limits as well.” She wrinkled her nose. “Would you–”

“I’m thinking more along the lines of Tom Hiddleston,” John interrupted, eager to steer the conversation towards hypothetical territory.

“Oh.” She inhaled, her eyes wide. “Yes, please.” Tilting her head, she hummed in thought. “Ewan McGregor? Oh! Jude Law?”

He exhaled on a laugh, raising one of the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, sure. Colin Firth?”

She giggled. “Hm, Pride and Prejudice-era Colin Firth, maybe.”

“Agreed.” John pulled his face into an exaggerated expression of anticipation, eyebrows raised. “Right, right, so we’ve got a wishlist. You’ve got any of their numbers, then?”

“A girl can hope.” She smiled conspiratorially. “God, d’you reckon there’s a chance we could do, you know, any of that, sometime?”

He shrugged, letting the pretense fall from his face. “I don’t know. I’ve never even snogged a bloke, you know. It’d be a bit much to get one to join us in bed, right from the start. But I can’t deny being a bit curious.”

She pulled herself up to kiss him on the cheek. “Yeah, I understand. If you’d want to experiment a bit, you know.” She shrugged. “We could always talk about it.”

“Really?” He raised his eyebrows and exhaled. “Maybe I would. I don’t know.”

He leaned over and kissed her on the mouth, convinced that nothing was a problem and everything would end up all right.


	6. Correlation / A Sunday in late October

They were holed up in a wardrobe in an abandoned building, and the irony of being in the closet was not lost to either of them. John had only had time to make about half a joke before Sherlock had pushed him into the closet and closed the door, about ten seconds before their suspect barged into the room.

John’s heart thumped in his ears. He was pressed with his back against the wall, his head askew to fit under the clothes rail – they were lucky enough that the closet was empty – and Sherlock crouched next to him.

Meanwhile, offsetting their stillness, the suspect was acting in a frenzy, taking his shoes off and making a brief, chaotic phone call – ”Yes. I’ve got them. No, to the other place. (laughter) Nobody here anymore!” – before exiting the room. The whole thing couldn’t have taken more than thirty seconds.

John tried to still a shiver, perhaps brought on by the cold air blowing through a broken window, or by the sight of Sherlock’s profile so perfectly framed by a sliver of sun through a crack in the closet door. A few seconds passed before Sherlock caught John’s eye and gave a tiny nod. They both exhaled. Sherlock opened the closet door and stepped outside to stretch his back.

“Confirmed, then?” John asked, stepping out from under the clothes rail and straightened his neck.

“Obviously.”

Sherlock turned towards John, and just when it seemed like he was going to say something, he frowned. He put his finger against his lips, and his other hand on John’s arm in a signal to stay still. A second passed. Then, Sherlock flung both of them back into the closet and closed the door behind them. They hadn’t had time to arrange themselves in a suitable way, and this time, Sherlock’s body was pressed against John’s side. Their faces were only inches apart, and John tried not to focus on Sherlock’s lips so close to his own.

Not two seconds later, the suspect jogged back into the room, picked up his sneakers that were still lying in the middle of the room, and then ran out again, banging the door behind him.

John exhaled on a smile, but his laughter faltered when he saw Sherlock’s gaze sharp upon him. In the dim light inside the closet, Sherlock’s eyes tensed in a minuscule frown, almost too small for the naked eye, but it was a frown John had seen before, a sign of recognition, of an _I’m on to something_.

John swallowed hard when he felt Sherlock’s hand on his wrist, his thumb making tiny motions over John’s hand. Sherlock’s face was only inches away from John’s, his breath hot on John’s face, a striking contradiction with the cold air around them. John wet his lips in an attempt to buy himself time, but his mind couldn’t seem to form any thoughts besides _bloody hell, I’d only have to tilt up my face to kiss him_.

His throat tensed up at the sight of the minuscule lines in Sherlock’s irises. Sherlock’s eyes were bright and intense, darting over John’s face, and all of John’s perception was taken up by the warm air that they were sharing, the minuscule muscle movements in Sherlock’s face, the awareness that they could almost _feel_ the blinking of each other’s eyelids.

Sherlock tilted his head. John felt paralysed, outwardly still but a roiling storm on the inside. It was almost too much to bear, the way Sherlock’s eyes scanned his face, moving from eye to eye to mouth to–

Sherlock let go of John’s arm and took a step back, back through the closet door and into the openness of the room. John exhaled, and leaned his head against the wall behind him.

He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or throw a punch, so he settled on an indignant “What the fuck was that, Sherlock?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock said, his voice tense.

“What?” John scoffed. He didn’t wait for a reply before he continued, “I realise we said some big things to each other earlier this week. But I don’t want anything to get weird between us.”

Everything was going so well, and he wanted to do everything to keep it that way. It was a thin line, one he couldn’t cross on either side: being with Sherlock too much would make him lose Mary, and being with Mary too much would make him lose Sherlock, and he wouldn’t be able to live with himself in either case.

“Yeah. Good.” Sherlock sounded skeptical.

“Sherlock, come on. I don’t see why my former crush on you should change anything.” Suddenly realising that he was still standing inside the closet, John stepped outside into the room. The cold air blowing through the broken window served to calm his nerves, if only slightly.

“That’s just it,” Sherlock said slowly. He turned around to face John, a frown line between his eyes. “You say ‘former’, but that’s not true, is it? There is a negative correlation between our proximity and the size of your pupils.” John must have looked confused, because Sherlock rolled his eyes and explained, “Your pupils get larger when I get closer, John. Your body temperature rises, your pulse quickens.”

John averted his gaze. This was all wrong. Sherlock wasn’t supposed to know this. It would make everything so awkward between them. He swallowed in an attempt to clear the tension from his throat.

“It doesn’t matter, does it?” he managed to say. “I mean, I can’t… And you’re hardly…” He cleared his throat. He wasn’t sure anymore what Sherlock was. “You’re hardly interested in any of this.”

Sherlock paused. “Right.” His voice was flat. He walked over to the window to look outside. “Because that makes it easier for you, doesn’t it?”

“It does, yeah.” John’s skin prickled. “Just…” He swallowed, trying to pull his thoughts together. “Just forget about it. Please.” He cast an imploring look at Sherlock, as if a more intense gaze – even directed at his back – would persuade him to agree.

Sherlock turned back around to face John, hostility flaring in his eyes. “Because that’s all that matters. What you want. What’s easier for you. What fits around your preposterous approximation of a marriage.”

Oh, fuck. More than the disdain in Sherlock’s words, it was the hurt in his eyes that tightened as a screw around John’s gut.

“Sherlock.” He winced. “I’m sorry. Of course that’s not all that matters. You matter. What you want, matters.”

“No, it doesn’t. It can’t.” Sherlock scoffed. “You have no idea, do you?” He shook his head, brow furrowed. The moment stretched. “I have been in love with you for years. And you never noticed.”

John felt all the air escape from his lungs, as if he were punched in the stomach. It made something inside his heart jump up, a glimmer of hope, and he rushed to quell it down, because it had no place in his current life, the life that he’d chosen for himself. The life as Mary’s husband and Olivia’s father. The life he’d completely fuck up if he acted on any of this.

Fuck. Sherlock was in love with him. Why had he never noticed before? What the fuck had he thrown away by being stupid, and stubborn, and silent about his own feelings? Why had they missed their chance?

“Oh,” was all he managed to say.

Just like that, the emotion disappeared from Sherlock’s eyes. “Look, I can accept that you’re merely–” he inhaled through his teeth, “–infatuated with me, and that the rest of it is all just a feeble dream of mine, but don’t taunt me about it.”

“I’m not… I wasn’t going to.” John frowned. “Of course not, Sherlock.”

“Oh, really?” Sherlock scoffed. “All those dismissive jokes about us being a couple. As if it were a ridiculous idea.” He cast a bitter look at John, then let his gaze fall to the floor.

Oh, fuck. Just when John thought it couldn’t get worse, it did. All the times he’d made a joke about it, trying not to cross the line of _the lady doth protest too much_. He’d hurt Sherlock, over and over again, without even knowing it.

“I’m sorry,” he said. It was completely inadequate.

He walked over to Sherlock, who half turned away as if in self-defense.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock said. “I’ll learn to live with the situation, and you won’t even notice.”

God, this was all wrong. John stopped in his tracks about an arm’s length away, scrubbed a hand over his face, limbs suddenly heavy as if there were stones in his sleeves and trouser legs. He was really fucking this all up, wasn’t he? He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. He was done playing games. Sherlock deserved better.

“I only joked about it because it came too bloody close,” he said softly. “Because I wasn’t prepared to admit that I love you.” He swallowed. “Not even to myself. I didn’t realise it, or I wasn’t able to accept it, until I thought you were dead. I’m sorry.”

John opened his eyes to see Sherlock turned towards him, looking startled.

“No,” Sherlock said. It almost sounded like a plea. The side of his face was starkly lit by the grey light from outside, soft skin over sharp bones, his beauty offset by the grief in his eyes.

John’s hand reached out, almost of its own accord, and cupped Sherlock’s cheek. He caressed the soft skin with his thumb, trying to smooth out the sadness from Sherlock’s face.

“Can you forgive me?” John asked. “Would you–”

“You’re married,” Sherlock interrupted, his voice fragile.

John drew his hand back and shook his head minutely. “Yes. Of course.” Of course he was married. He tried to smile. “Yes.” He winced at himself, at the realisation that he’d momentarily forgotten.

Yes, he was married, he’d promised Mary that he would stay with her, not only on the good days, but also the bad ones, and he had a daughter who deserved two parents, two parents who loved her and who loved each other.

John was a good man. He tried to do the right things. And it was destroying him to the bone, but he would make it work.

There were a thousand things he wanted to say – _I love you, I love you, I love you_ ; _I wish there was a chance to make this work_ ; _does your love hurt as much as mine?_ ; _please kiss me_ ; _we’re a bunch of idiots, aren’t we?_ – but they were all excruciatingly impossible.

So he swallowed and said, “I guess it would be wiser if we just…” He blinked hard, unable to finish the sentence.

“If nothing happens between us,” Sherlock said. “If we go on like before. If we forget all of this.”

“Yes.” He would. He had to. “Yes, I’ll make it work. We’ll make it work.”

A pause. “But you’re happy with her?” Sherlock’s voice was soft.

John paused, maybe too long. “Yes, of course.” He had to do his best not to avoid Sherlock’s eyes. “It’s not perfect, but it’s as happy as I think I could be with anyone who…” _Who isn’t you._ “Who isn’t perfect.”

Sherlock clenched his lips, held John’s gaze for a few seconds, then nodded.

They stood there, looking just past each other, for minutes. Images of the life they could have had flashed in front of John’s eyes. Living together in 221B. Snuggling on the couch. Fighting over the mess Sherlock made, and making up in bed. Late nights on stakeouts, lazy mornings.

Finally, Sherlock looked at John. A hint of a smile. “Lunch?”

John inhaled deeply and looked Sherlock in the eye. Okay. He wasn’t hungry, and there was no chance in hell that Sherlock was hungry, but it sounded like a peace offering. Now that all that was out of the way, perhaps they could be friends again, back to normal.

He inhaled and closed his eyes for a moment. “Hang on,” he said, opening his eyes, “I thought we said this wasn’t going to change anything between us.” He did his best to produce a smile.

“What do you mean?” Sherlock frowned.

“You just initiated lunch. Next thing I know, you’ll start cleaning up the flat.”

Some of the tension in John’s chest disappeared when he saw the corners of Sherlock’s mouth rise a tiny amount.

“Next thing you know, I’ll start sleeping at regular intervals,” Sherlock said, a smile in his voice.

John burst out in completely inappropriate giggles. “Or complimenting police officers,” he managed to say between two fits of laughter, thinking _God, this whole mess has finally driven me crazy_.

Sherlock chuckled, then laughed, and for the first time since last night it felt like they were on a path to becoming friends again.


	7. Definitions / A Wednesday evening in early November

“Love, can I ask you something?”

“Yeah, of course, what is it?” Mary put down her fork and folded her hands under her chin.

John flashed a half-smile at her. “You know I love you.”

“That’s not a question.” Her intonation was that of a joke, but her eyes were tired.

It was a few days after John’s last conversation with Sherlock. After their love confessions, they’d had a stilted conversation over lunch, doing their best not to look each other in the eye too much. The awkwardness was excruciating, and John had decided – silently, to himself – that he wouldn’t bother Sherlock too much for a few days, hoping to bring things back to normal.

They had texted each other every now and then. Sherlock had asked John a few minor medical questions, John had shared some personal observations or funny links he’d found online. John did his best to avoid any intimate topics, and it seemed like Sherlock was doing the same.

Still, John hadn’t been able to put their conversation out of his mind at all, even for a minute. He was constantly on guard to act normal, constantly thinking about what he would normally do in similar circumstances.

So when Mary had initiated sex last night, he had done his best to be aroused by her small hands, her breasts, her slightly sagging belly, the shapely legs that she’d carefully shaved for him. It was fine if underneath it all, there was a thin layer of thoughts about sharp, long limbs and bony fingers. He knew how it was: all married men helped themselves a bit with thoughts of other people every now and then.

And tonight, a quiet night in with nothing on: would he normally feel so claustrophobic? No. So he ignored the tension in his throat and put on his best husband-and-father act.

But there was a conversation that he’d been dying to have with Mary, and the longer he’d put it off, the more awkward it would be.

So he cleared his throat, and said, “When I told you I’m bisexual, you said you wouldn’t mind if I experimented a bit. What does that mean?”

He took a bite of his spaghetti, hoping that his question sounded casual. He’d spent at least fifteen minutes preparing it in silence.

Mary shrugged. “I’m not sure, actually. What would you want it to mean?”

Oh, fuck. He should have prepared for that question as well. Should have realised that when it came to interrogation tactics, Mary was far out of his league.

“Well. I suppose, now that it’s all out in the open, I am a bit curious. So I was wondering if you’d be all right with me exploring that? A little?”

“Yeah, you still haven’t told me what that means for you.” She sounded tired.

“Mm, okay.” He raised his eyebrows, exhaled. “What if, er. What if I’d go to a gay bar? See how I feel? I could pretend it’s for a case, if someone I know sees me.” God, this conversation was a terrible idea and he was completely bollocksing it all up.

To his surprise, Mary nodded. “Sure. Going to a gay bar is fine.” Her gaze turned to steel. “Just to be clear, though, I won’t have you shagging anyone else. If you find someone you like, you’re free to introduce him to the possibility of a threesome, but I will not tolerate you fucking someone else without me in the room.”

As she smiled and went back to her pasta, John felt himself shrink. It seemed like he’d done something wrong already, though he wasn’t sure what.

“Okay,” he managed to say. “I’ll, er. Think about it.”

She put down her fork and smiled at him. “I love you, you know. And I really appreciate that we’re both trying our best to make it work.” She reached out over the table to stroke his cheek. “To keep the promises we made to each other.”

John pulled his face into a smile. “We are.” He put his hand over hers. “And I think we’re doing rather well.”

He pressed her hand in what he hoped was an affectionate gesture, took both their hands away from his cheek, and bent his head down again to take another bite of his pasta. The stone in his chest loosened somewhat, and his head felt slightly clearer. He was trying his best, that wasn’t a lie. And there was nothing wrong as long as he didn’t fuck anyone else. That was a clear rule. And it was doable.

Later that evening, when he was taking a brief pause from doing the dishes, he texted Sherlock.

_Case on?_

_No. SH_

_Doing anything tonight then?_

John toyed briefly with the idea of suggesting an outing to a gay bar, but he couldn’t. That would seem to eager. Mary wouldn’t like it.

_Experiment. SH_

Good, apparently Sherlock was busy anyway, which was probably for the better. John did his best to ignore his disappointment, put his phone down on the kitchen table and continued drying the dishes when his phone beeped again.

_Will be scouting some leads in Camden tomorrow morning. Join me? SH_

John’s heart leapt in his chest, and he turned towards the sink to hide his smile from Mary.

_Yes. Pick me up on the way there?_

_Around 10am. Looking forward to it. SH_

The next morning, John was up far too early. He slipped out of bed while Mary was still asleep, and found Olivia cooing quietly in her cot. After a short consideration, he called the sitter for today, so as not to disturb Mary’s plans with his own.

He spent the early hours of the morning with Olivia, feeding and changing her and reading her a book. She pointed at the pictures and smiled up at him. Olivia was perfect: happy and smart, and her tiny feet were the two single purest things in the world. After the sitter arrived and it was almost time to leave, he put on his shoes and coat and went up to the bedroom to give Mary a kiss.

She was half awake, all heavy eyes and slow limbs in a tangle of warm bedsheets, and he lay down next to her for a minute and stroked her hair.

“Hey,” he said. “Good morning.”

Mary hummed and nuzzled his neck. “Thanks for letting me sleep, love.”

He stroked her cheek with his thumb. “Did you know that we made a perfect little creature together?”

“We did.” She pulled back and smiled at him. “So you’re off somewhere? Should I get up?”

“Sherlock texted me about a case, so I called Ivy. She just got here, so you can take it easy this morning.”

“Thank you, darling. You are the perfect husband.”

He chuckled. “Hardly.” He couldn’t bring himself to reciprocate in similar words, so he just kissed her forehead, and got up from the bed.

When the cab drew up in front of the house, John was already outside, and he opened the door before the cab had even fully halted.

“Morning,” Sherlock said.

John got into the cab and turned to look at him. “Morning.”

John’s heart was in his throat, and he felt unreasonably out of breath. He smiled at Sherlock, and their gazes lingered longer than they previously would. Sherlock gave a tiny nod, one that John answered with a nod of his own, and then they both turned to look outside.

Good. This was under control.

The cab brought them to Camden, where they walked around for a few hours, diving in and out of shops every now and then. John could live for days off the realisation that every touch and every gaze, no matter how small, was as meaningful as he’d always secretly hoped. It was the strangest version of relief, filled with exhilaration and adrenaline: the elation of the acknowledgement of love, defused by the agreement to keep it at that.

It was a strange thing, this. He really did care for Mary, but there was something about Sherlock that made him feel crisp and bright and clear, like the first day of spring, or a dip in a mountain lake. Something that made him feel alive.

They sat down in a tiny cafe for a cup of tea, because Sherlock wanted to keep an eye on a storefront across the street. There was a drug ring active in the neighbourhood, Sherlock explained, and after investigating a few possible locations for the central distribution point, this shop was his best bet.

The table was small, and again, their knees touched, just like a few weeks earlier, in the pub where they’d met Victor. But this time, when their eyes met, there was no pretense that it meant nothing, and neither of them moved their legs out of the way. Sherlock smiled at John, his eyes fragile, and then turned to look out of the window.

John’s gaze fell to the table, where Sherlock’s hands were tangled up in a knot, softly moving over each other. Fingers examining other fingers, nails picking at cuticles, rubbing over smooth knuckles.

Sherlock had never seemed like a real person. Even when he’d been John’s flatmate and walked around in a bedsheet sometimes, he’d always seemed like a spectre, untouchable, a figment of one’s imagination. But these hands, these fingers in front of John, the way the skin moved when it rubbed against itself, the softest hairs on the back of Sherlock’s hands, this was all happening only inches from John’s nervous hands and it was real.

These hands, would they be warm or cold? Soft or calloused? John took a sip of his tea, and when he set it back on the table, he let his hand linger, only inches from Sherlock’s fingers.

He’d held Sherlock’s hand once, when they were running away from the police, years ago. Sherlock’s hand had been larger than any of the hands he’d held before. Warm, rough, and large. They’d gripped each other softly at first, then harder.

Perhaps he should have known, then.

John hesitated, put his hand on Sherlock’s arm and squeezed, just briefly, before putting his elbows back on the table.

“You okay?” he asked.

“John, we’re supposed to be watching for deliveries, not conferring about our feelings.”

“Until that happens, we can talk, can’t we?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m okay. Are you okay?”

“Um, yeah, I’m–”

“All right,” Sherlock interrupted, without taking his eyes off the storefront across the street. “Fine. Now we can go back to the case.”

“I talked to Mary last night.”

Sherlock’s head whipped around to look at John. “Oh?”

“Well, I didn’t tell her about, er, what we confessed to each other. But she said she’d be okay with me experimenting a bit.”

“Hm.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Experimenting. What does that mean, exactly?”

“I should be fine as long as I don’t shag anyone else.” He winced at the crude word, but Sherlock didn’t seem to take offence. “And I’ve got permission to go to a gay bar, see what it’s like.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Like you’ve never been to a gay bar.”

“The one we got thrown out of on the night of my stag do, you mean?” John looked down at his hands, smiling at the memory. “Well, that did make me a bit nervous, I have to say. If I remember correctly, anyway. It’s all rather muddled in my brain, that night, and I must have deleted the rest of that scene completely. Might have had something to do with all the, er –” he chuckled, “– all the alcohol. I do remember thinking at the time that it was interesting that you had a gay bar on th–”

When he raised his head to look at Sherlock, he only just caught sight of Sherlock’s coat swishing through the door, across the street, and cursing to himself, he pulled out his wallet, left a tenner on the table and dashed out to follow.


	8. Hands / A Monday morning in late November

Over the next three weeks, nothing went wrong. Nothing changed. The gazes grew more intense, the touches lingered longer. But it was fine. They were friends, even though John felt an ever increasing need for Sherlock, not for anything in specific, but just his company, his nearness, the joy and energy that came with hearing his voice and seeing his movements. The realisation that Sherlock’s company was like a drug to him was slightly unsettling, but had it ever really been otherwise?

So he tagged along on Sherlock’s cases twice a week, and then even more often, about every other day. Which was fine, but it was also the definite upper limit to the time they should spend together. Seeing Sherlock every other day meant that John was spending about as many days with him as with his wife, which seemed proper.

And then, on a bright and chilly morning in November, after a night of chasing criminals, John was home with Olivia, and they hadn’t slept well, and they were irritated with each other, and John was aching for Sherlock. Everything was bothering him and it seemed like Sherlock’s presence would be the only thing that could soothe it all.

They’d seen each other only ten hours ago, though, so according to his inner policy, John shouldn’t see him for at least another day. He read all the newspapers and updated his blog and read Olivia a book, which thankfully calmed her down a bit, and then he read the newspapers _again_ and walked aimlessly around the house and when he really didn’t know what to do with himself himself any longer, he gave in and texted Sherlock.

_I’m bored._

Even just sending the text brought a tiny smile to John’s lips. It was almost a private joke, the exact thing that Sherlock would sometimes text him.

A reply came within ten seconds.

_Go do family stuff. SH_

John frowned. Sherlock’s reply made perfect sense, of course, but it felt disappointing. He’d hoped Sherlock would come up with something.

_Mary’s at work, and Olivia’s not feeling well, so I can’t go out. I’m bored, Sherlock._

_Why are you telling me? SH_

_You always bug me when you’re bored, so I thought you might have some ideas._

_The fact that I usually ask you would indicate the opposite. SH_

John chuckled.

_What do you usually do when you’re bored and I’m not available?_

_Experiments. SH_

_OK, that won’t work. Anything else?_

_Why not experiments? SH_

_Mary won’t let me run a chemistry lab in our flat._

_Not all experiments require a lab, John. SH_

John chuckled. He could almost hear Sherlock’s reprimanding tone.

_What do you suggest then?_

A minute passed without a reply from Sherlock. Two minutes.

John did his best not to feel disappointed. Sherlock probably had other things on his mind. When Sherlock still hadn’t replied after five minutes, John got up from the couch to make himself a sandwich, cleaned up the kitchen, and was just about to turn on the telly – Christ, had it really come to the point where he considered watching daytime television? – when the doorbell rang. John couldn’t remember ordering anything online, but maybe Mary had been shopping again on her phone while she’d spent hours trying to comfort a crying baby two nights ago.

When he opened the door, it wasn’t the postman, but Sherlock. He looked like he was trying hard not to smile, his hands behind his back, and a look in his eyes so eager that he might as well have been bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Oh. Hello.” John bit back a grin. “This is a nice surprise.”

“I was bored too,” Sherlock conceded. “Thought we could be bored together. Maybe do some experiments.”

John stepped back to let Sherlock enter the house, and they stood in the hallway grinning at each other for a few seconds while Sherlock pulled his gloves off his fingers. This felt intimate. The two of them alone. No case to distract them, no crowd around them.

But hey, they’d done this a thousand times before, back in the day. They shared a flat, for god’s sake. They’d walked around in their underwear, and that had never been awkward. It shouldn’t be any different now.

Although, of course, if they’d known about each other’s feelings back then, if they’d been aware of this infinite pull they had on each other, the things they could have done, the life they could have had…

John inhaled and looked away from Sherlock’s eyes. “Tea?”

“Please.”

While Sherlock shrugged off his long coat, John walked into the kitchen, where he put the kettle on and got mugs out of the cupboard.

“So, any ideas for experiments, then?” he asked.

Sherlock stepped into the doorframe and leaned against the doorpost, crossing his arms. “I haven’t prepared anything, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m all out of limbs at home, and Molly’s on holiday for some reason, so I thought maybe we could get Olivia to–”

“Ah, no,” John interrupted, pointing at Sherlock with a teaspoon. “I said, she’s not feeling well. And even if she was, you’re not–”

“How about the effects of–”

“Sherlock, no.” John let out an exasperated sigh. “We’re not experimenting on my baby.” Despite the complete inappropriateness of Sherlock’s proposal, John couldn’t stop himself from giggling when he turned back around to get the teabags out of the cupboard.

“She’s almost a toddler.”

“Regardless.”

John turned back to look at Sherlock, who smiled and tilted his head in concession.

“Okay,” Sherlock said. “Then what do you suggest?”

“I don’t have any body parts here, in case you were wondering.”

Sherlock inhaled sharply and raised his eyebrows, the look he had when he’d deduced or realised something. “Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, John. You do.” His eyes glinted.

John frowned. “Hm, no, I don’t.” He walked over to the fridge, opened the door, and made a theatrical gesture towards the interior. “Look. Actually filled with food. I realise it’s a foreign concept to you.” He grabbed a carton of milk and closed the fridge.

“I don’t mean in the fridge, John.” Sherlock’s tone was probably meant to be imperious, but a definite air of mischief shone through.

“What?”

“Yours.”

“My what?” Then the meaning of the phrase dawned on him. “Wait a second.” John laughed, putting the milk carton on the countertop and leaning back against it. “Sherlock. You’re not experimenting on me.”

Sherlock stepped closer. “It wouldn’t be painful.”

“Um.” John tried to keep his brain operative, despite Sherlock closing in on him, slowly crowding him against the countertop. “I’m sure it would be, er…” He cleared his throat. “Not unpleasant. But. Well.”

Sherlock’s proximity had pushed all the words out of him. They stared at each other for seconds, and John realised that he still had a hard time figuring out the colour of Sherlock’s eyes. They seemed a bright shade of mint green now, a striking contrast with his dark lashes. One of the corners of Sherlock’s mouth was drawn up in a smirk.

“The things I have in mind are certainly not unpleasant.” Sherlock’s voice was dark and low, and made John’s stomach leap up into his throat.

“Oh,” he stammered, “but I couldn’t, er… I’ve told y–”

“You told me about the…” Sherlock faltered, an uncharacteristic hesitation. “About the boundaries you need to observe.” He inhaled, composition returning to his features. “But there are some things that would be perfectly safe and legitimate, which I wouldn’t mind studying.”

Behind John, the kettle dinged. He made a face, turned around, and busied himself with mugs and tea bags and hot water and spoons and milk, until he couldn’t stall any longer. He turned back around to Sherlock, who had retreated to the other side of the kitchen and had resumed his position leaning against the doorpost, arms crossed in front of his chest.

“Not saying yes, but what do you have in mind?” John asked, trying to keep his voice light, while he put the mugs on the kitchen table.

“Let me touch your hands. That’s all.” Sherlock’s tone was businesslike.

John swallowed. “My hands.” He sat down at the kitchen table, gesturing Sherlock to take the chair opposite him.

Sherlock sat down and folded his hands on the table in front of him. “I have been studying the reactions to casual touches of hands on hands in conversations.”

It took a few seconds before the meaning of the phrase dawned on John. “You’ve been holding hands with strangers?”

“Not deliberately. People grab my hands sometimes when they’re telling me about their poor mother or neighbour or dog disappearing. Only analysing and recording their physiological reactions such as heart rate and skin conductivity makes that remotely bearable.”

“And now you need mine as well.”

“It would make for interesting additional observations. We have established our mutual feelings and our intentions to keep our relationship strictly platonic. My hypothesis is that the mere presence of those feelings will cause differences in blood pressure, heart rate, etcetera, as compared to the baseline of strangers.”

John swallowed. “You want to hold hands with me. For science.”

“Yes.” Sherlock’s eyes shone. “I’d be able to deduce how people feel about me, based on their handshake.”

John chuckled, shook his head. “You’re absolutely mad.”

He blew on his tea to cool it down while he tried to figure out how he felt about holding Sherlock’s hand. He’d like nothing more, but wasn’t it dangerous? Sherlock was so bloody perfect, and even sitting here together in John’s kitchen felt like it might be crossing a line. If Mary knew about John’s feelings for Sherlock and the fact that they were together in the apartment while she was away, he’d be in trouble.

He winced. “It seems improper.”

“Because we have feelings for each other?” Sherlock set his mug down. “You told me that Mary wouldn’t mind if you experiment a bit, as long as you don’t engage in sexual relations with other people than herself. This is literally such an experiment.” His mouth pulled into a mischievous smile. “John, you know by now that I’m not a virgin, and you must realise that I know the difference between holding hands and sexual intercourse.”

John huffed a laugh, then inhaled deeply and looked up at Sherlock. He really wouldn’t mind holding Sherlock’s hand, and he couldn’t deny being curious how it would feel. It did seem like an interesting experiment to find out how affected he’d be by it, and as long as it was just that, there should really be no reason why it wouldn’t be allowed.

It felt dangerous. But when had he ever shied away from danger?

So he nodded. “Okay. As long as we both promise that nothing else will happen. This is really important to me.”

“I promise.” Sherlock put on a serious face. “Should I explain the methods?”

John shrugged. “We just hold hands, I presume? I’ll leave the rest to you.”

“Correct. Just for a minute or so, that should be more than enough for any physiological responses to manifest.”

“All right. Okay.” John’s breath was high in his chest. This was happening. This was actually going to happen.

Sherlock looked at him, all bright eyes and rosy cheeks. “Give me your right hand.”

John took a drink of his tea – perhaps for courage, or against the sudden dryness of his mouth – and put his right hand on the table, palm up. Sherlock extended his left hand to touch it, fingers first, and then slid his hand into John’s. It almost tickled. Sherlock rested his fingers lightly on John’s wrist. Sherlock’s hand was warm, and covered John’s hand completely.

“Should we, er.” John cleared his throat. “Do we talk? And do we hold our hands still, or?”

Sherlock kept his eyes on their hands. “Whatever you want.”

Tentatively, John moved his fingers to caress the palm of Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock took a sharp breath, and then moved his thumb to stroke John’s wrist. John’s whole body seemed concentrated into these few square inches of skin, touching Sherlock’s skin, which was softer than he’d imagined.

John didn’t dare look up at Sherlock’s face, instead keeping his gaze on their hands. This was nice. He exhaled and then inhaled deeply, trying to push away that out-of-breath feeling. Sherlock’s hands were amazing. His fingers were long and strong, callused on the fingertips, and when his thumb caressed the palm of John’s hand, John had to do his best not to moan.

After what seemed like far too short, Sherlock cleared his throat. “Okay, this should do it.”

They withdrew their hands, slowly, looked up at each other. There was a definite flush on Sherlock’s cheeks, and John felt about equally flustered.

“Now what?” John asked.

“I know enough.”

“Know… What, exactly?”

“It appears that there’s a significant difference in pulse, blood pressure, pupil dilation, skin temperature, and skin conductivity as compared to holding hands with random people.” Sherlock smiled briefly, awkwardly. “Only two data points for this situation – you and me – but these experimental circumstances are difficult to reproduce.”

“Okay, okay.” John nodded, trying to smile. “This was, er, interesting, I suppose. Satisfied with the results?” He swallowed. “Or, maybe, do you want to try again? See if there’s, well, you never know?”

“Well.” Sherlock blinked. “Even if we don’t get the chance to change test subjects, I’m sure we could still benefit from reproducing the results. Just to be sure.” He shrugged. “Try our other hands, maybe?”

John put his left hand on the table, and Sherlock rested his right hand in John’s. It was more familiar than last time, but they moved their hands more, exploring each other’s fingers, stroking skin, rubbing over knuckles, interlacing their fingers.

John swallowed. God, this was the best he’d felt in ages, and it was from touching a bloke’s hand, for fuck’s sake. If it came to experimenting with men, this took away any doubt he might have had about his feelings for men, or for Sherlock in particular. This was definitely not an innocent crush. These hands, and the things that they could do…

Sherlock looked up at him and asked, “Can you tell me what you’re thinking about?”

John laughed briefly before schooling his features back into a serious expression. “Absolutely not.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. “Are you thinking improper thoughts, John Watson?”

Oh, to hell with it. “What if I am?” John met Sherlock’s eyes in defiance. “Your fault, though. Your hands are amazing.”

“Oh, you have no idea.” Sherlock’s voice was about an octave lower than usual, and it seemed to shoot directly to John’s groin.

As if hit by an electric shock, John drew back his hand. “Wait.” He shook his head. “This is going too far.”

He wished he hadn’t gone along with this strange… Whatever it was. They’d called this an experiment, but it was much more intimate than he’d expected. He didn’t want to stop, he wanted to touch Sherlock more, feel Sherlock’s hands all over his body, and that was definitely wrong, and not allowed, and not going to happen.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m not sure I feel comfortable with this. I probably should have done this.” He took a deep breath. “I’m not sure what it feels like for you, but it’s bloody intense for me. I don’t know. I’ve just never really felt this way.” It was a strange sensation, his body tingling, heightened senses, like the whole world was concentrated into the air between them.

Sherlock looked at him from under a furrowed brow. “It does feel rather intense for me too.”

John shook his head. “What the fuck are we doing, Sherlock? Are we being stupid?”

Sherlock put his hand on the table, palm up, but John folded his hands in front of his mouth.

“John, you agreed not to have extramarital sexual intercourse. Touching each other’s hands and talking does not fall under that category. If anything, this serves to confirm the extent of our self-control.”

John leaned his elbows on the table, rubbed his eyes. He looked up at Sherlock. “It does feel bloody sexual, to be honest.” He swallowed. “But yeah, you’re probably right, technically.”

It might have been a strange reassurance, but it worked. Nobody had shed any clothing, their fingers had not travelled beyond each other’s wrists, they’d not even said aloud any improper thoughts they might have. Not to mention the fact that they were both adamant about adhering to boundaries.

John tried to unclench his jaw, and sighed. “Okay. This is okay. This is fine.”

Sherlock nodded. “Correct.” He smiled. “Again?”

An hour later, they’d moved to the couch, sitting on opposite sides against the armrests, turned towards each other, both with one arm stretched out along the back of the couch, fingers intertwined with each other. Olivia was napping against Sherlock’s chest, and John leaned his head against his arm, looking at Sherlock. This was good. This was safe. This was what heaven felt like.


	9. Date / A Friday evening in late November

Things got surprisingly better over the next few days. The intensity of the hand-holding experiment had made John even more adamant to adhere to the rules and boundaries he’d set for himself. It was liberating, though, to have so many of his secrets out in the open, and everything going so well.

The weekend after the hand-holding experiment, John arranged for Olivia to stay over at Cath’s, and took Mary out on a date. An actual date, the first one since Olivia was born. He’d made a reservation at a nice, modest restaurant, one that they both hadn’t visited before, but had good reviews. Mary had been surprised, but pleasantly so, and she’d dashed off to the bedroom to dress up nicely, and emerged looking prettier than he’d seen her in ages.

Perhaps this was the turning point for his marriage, the one that their marital counselor had promised them: the point where everything was finally getting easier.

The restaurant exceeded the reviews John had read. They talked about Mary’s work, gossiped a bit about John’s ex-colleagues. John told her about the cases he and Sherlock had worked on in the past few weeks.

When Mary was in the bathroom, John texted Sherlock.

_Hey. How are you?_

_Bored. Care to come over for an experiment? SH_

Something fluttered in John’s throat. Christ, yes, he’d want to.

_Not tonight, date night with Mary. Tomorrow?_

_Come by whenever you want, I’ll be home. SH_

John hesitated for a second, then asked:

_Anything planned in particular, experiment-wise?_

_I’ll think of a few options. SH_

_Can’t wait. :-)_

_Neither can I. SH_

_See you tomorrow._

He made sure to slip his phone back into his pocket before Mary came back from the bathroom.

God, he really couldn’t wait. The surprising ease of the whole situation made him bold, perhaps a bit brash, but if they could make a whole evening of hand-holding feel harmless, there was a lot more they could do, wasn’t there?

After dinner, John and Mary went to see a movie, and John offered to pick up some popcorn while Mary went ahead into the movie theatre. In line for the bar, he checked his phone. He had a text from Sherlock.

_Same conditions as our previous experiment, I presume? SH_

John exhaled on a smile.

_Yes. Any ideas yet?_

_Many I’d like to try. Though so far, 100% fall out of allowed boundaries. SH_

_I’m sure you and your brilliant mind will think of something. ;-)_

John bit his lip, and then typed another text.

_Do keep records of the forbidden ones you come up with. Even if they’re off-limits, I wouldn’t mind hearing about them. ;-)_

He winced. Did that last text go too far? Ah well, he’d already sent it. Smiling to himself, John turned his phone off and put it in his pocket, picked up a bucket of salty popcorn for Mary and sweet for himself, and after some thought, two mini bottles of wine as well. He found Mary and slid into the seat next to her.

She was busy texting, so he leaned in close and whispered, “Hello, wife.”

She smiled up at him, slightly surprised. “Hello, husband.” She held up a finger. “Hang on, let me just…” She tapped some more at her phone, and then put her phone away and looked at John. “Ooh, more wine. God, I’m so happy Olivia is properly drinking from a bottle now.” She took the bottle and the popcorn bucket from John and settled in her chair.

He unscrewed the cap on his bottle and clinked it against hers. “To a good date. I’m happy we’re doing this. Might be a bit overdue.”

“Yeah. Did you know that Paul and Cath never stopped doing this, even after Oscar was born?”

“What, dating?”

“Yeah. Weekly date night.”

John scoffed. “Even right after Oscar was born? That hardly seems–”

“He hired a chef,” Mary interrupted, “to come cook at their house, a few days after she gave birth. That’s impressive, isn’t it?”

John made a face and nodded. He’d never be as considerate as Paul. God, he hated him.

The movie was trite – Sherlock would have certainly hated it – but John and Mary giggled and eyerolled their way through it, and it almost felt like in the early days when they dated. It reminded John of why he’d first felt attracted to Mary. Her sarcastic humour, her deadpan remarks, the unexpected little facts she knew about practically everything.

John tried to forget that she’d probably picked up most of those facts when she was living a life that would always stay a secret from him.

When they got back home late that night, Mary closed the front door behind them, pushed John up against it, and kissed him. They undressed each other in the dark, and barely made it to the couch. John’s chest was full of love and energy. Touching Mary felt electric.

While they were moving against each other on the couch, John’s phone pinged twice, and his hand darted out to grab it both times, almost at its own volition ( _John, if you have any chance, I could very well use your assistance. -SH_ and _Please come at once. It’s an emergency. -SH_ ). After the second time, Mary took the phone out of John’s hand, turned it off completely, and dropped it on the floor.

John did his best to forget about Sherlock’s texts. Most likely, he was lying on the couch, too lazy to grab his tea or his magazine, and looking for someone to be at his beck and call. It was his wife he was focusing on right now, not Sherlock.

This was good. They were happy. It was the best sex they’d had since John could remember.

After they’d finished, and Mary was in the bathroom to clean up a bit, John pulled himself up to sit on the couch. He reached over to grab his phone and turned it back on. Seven missed calls. One from Sherlock. Two from an unknown number, three hours later. One from Lestrade, an hour after that. And twenty minutes after that, three from Mycroft.

Shit.

With trembling hands, he tapped the screen to call Mycroft back. This was not good. This was not good at all. If only he’d been there for Sherlock, if only he’d answered his texts, because apparently he _had_ been needed, if only he’d not been so preoccupied–

“Doctor Watson.” Mycroft’s voice sounded tinny and tired. “So you _are_ alive.”

“Mycroft, what’s up? Is everything all right?”

“You’re his emergency contact, you know.”

“His emergency contact for what?”

Mycroft paused for a second. “John. Sherlock was admitted to hospital with severe bruising to the throat and a broken clavicle. He was almost choked to death by a drug dealer, apparently.”

John blinked. “A drug dealer.” He dropped his head back to rest on the back of the couch. He was so relieved that Sherlock was alive, he couldn’t even muster up the energy to get properly angry.

“He keeps insisting it was for a case.” Mycroft’s voice was soft.

“Oh.”

“I don’t think I have to tell you that I rather doubt that.”

“Oh.” John rubbed his hand over his face.

Before he could think of a more profound answer, Mary came out of the bathroom, her bathrobe tied loosely around her hips. She frowned at the sight of John on the phone.

“Really?” she asked, irritation in her voice. “At this hour?”

John held up a hand to pause her. “Mycroft, look, I have to hang up. I’ll be over in a–” he glanced at Mary, “–tomorrow morning. Is that okay?”

He wanted to hear it _wasn’t_ okay. He wanted to hear that he should come at once.

But Mycroft said, “That’s all right. I’ll stay the night. He should be conscious in the morning.”

“Okay. Thanks, Mycroft. And I’m…” He cleared his throat. _I’m sorry_ , he wanted to say, but he wasn’t sure for what. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

He hung up, scrubbed his hand through his hair. “Jesus.” He looked up at Mary. “Sherlock’s in hospital.”

She scoffed. “What’d he do now?”

“I don’t know.” John pressed his fist to his mouth, shook his head. A drug dealer. Fuck. Bloody fucking hell.


	10. Awakening / A Saturday in late November

It was still dark when John woke up the next morning. The shortest day of the year was coming up. He leaned into Mary, briefly, inhaled the scent of her hair and pressed a kiss to her neck. He dressed in the dark, quickly and silently, and closed the door behind him.

The hospital was just waking up, doctors and nurses starting their morning shift, when he met Mycroft in the hallway. He looked as crisp as usual, though perhaps a shade paler.

“Thanks for sending a car for me, Mycroft.” John tried to smile at Mycroft, but neither of them succeeded.

They walked in silence to Sherlock’s room. John’s heart dropped at the sight of Sherlock, asleep in a hospital bed, nearly as white as the sheets around him. The expression on his face was peaceful, but John winced at the dark purple bruising around his throat and shoulders.

“God, he looks terrible.” John turned to Mycroft. “Did they do any…” He swallowed. “Did they do a blood test?”

“He’d been administered a generous helping of sedatives before they could get to that.”

John shook his head. Jesus. Sherlock might have been high, for all he knew. Fuck, this was all wrong. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

“How is he?” he asked Mycroft. “I mean, besides all this?”

“You tell me, John.” Mycroft looked at him with an unreadable expression in his eyes.

“I haven’t seen him in a few days.”

“Exactly.” The word seemed to carry an air of accusation.

“You asked me to look after him,” John said in a whisper, “but you did realise I’m married, right? I can’t be with him all the time.”

“John.” Mycroft looked at John with a cold smile on his face. “Your absence seems to bring out the worst in him. I realise it’s not an easy thing to hear. But every time you disappoint him, he might end up disappointing you in return.”

“What?” John clenched his fists. He had a hard time believing Sherlock was that vindictive.

“Not out of spite,” Mycroft said, as if he could read John’s mind. “Both of you have the inclination to distract yourselves with the wrong things.”

While John was trying to make sense of that statement, Mycroft continued, more softly, “I’ll leave you with him. It’s time for me to go back to work.” He glanced over at Sherlock. “My _other_ work, anyway.”

John tried to smile, and failed. “I’ll text you if there’s any news.”

After Mycroft left, John sat in a chair near the window and looked at Sherlock. He tried to calm his breathing, but it wasn’t easy, through a clenched throat and the vague beginning of tears. He couldn’t get Mycroft’s words out of his mind.

Was it really John’s fault, then? Was he hurting Sherlock by giving him hope and disappointing him over and over again? God, he’d been stupid, hadn’t he, thinking that this was a tenable situation. That this was in any way excusable, or defensible, or fair to Sherlock.

John raised his eyes to the ceiling and exhaled. What a fucking hopeless mess. Their lives had drifted to a point where it was impossible for them to act upon their feelings. Sherlock deserved so much better. Someone who could love him fully, who could be with him all the time, protect him, be all his.

John was only stringing Sherlock along. He was no better than Victor, in that regard.

“John.” Sherlock’s voice was thick, and he cleared his throat.

John looked up at him. “Hey.” He pulled the chair nearer to Sherlock’s bedside. “How are you feeling?” The words came out small.

Sherlock sniffed, looked around, winced as he tried to pull himself up, and frowned. “Has my intolerable brother been around?” His voice sounded thick. “The room smells like old aftershave with a hint of éclairs.”

John huffed a laugh, and felt something relax in his throat. “Yes. He left a while ago.” He hesitated for a moment, and then took Sherlock’s hand. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

Sherlock looked at him, knitted brows above dull eyes. “Mycroft must have told you the whole story.”

John lowered his eyes and nodded. “Yeah, pretty much.”

Sherlock bit his lips between his teeth, avoiding John’s gaze, and interlaced his fingers with John’s.

They sat there for minutes, looking at their intertwined hands, before John found the courage to speak.

“I’m sorry for last night, Sherlock. For not answering your calls.”

Sherlock didn’t answer, so John continued, trying to keep his voice steady, “You’re doing dangerous things to distract yourself from all this.”

“You know I’m not an angel.” The disappointment in Sherlock’s voice could be directed at either of them. “You can’t _possibly_ be surprised.”

John shook his head. “Sherlock, I have to ask. Were you high?”

“Yes.” Sherlock untangled his fingers from John’s. “Which is my decision. I can accept that this is all I’m getting from you, but that means it’s my decision to spend the rest of my time distracting myself in any way I choose.”

John swallowed. A sudden tension in his ribcage. “You’re probably right.” He couldn’t claim anything from Sherlock. This sort of thing worked both ways. He didn’t have anything to offer Sherlock. Not as long as he was still married.

Sherlock looked up at him. “I’m not sure we’re doing the right thing.” The softness in his voice broke something inside John’s chest.

“Oh.” John closed his eyes for a second, then looked up at Sherlock. “I really thought we were.”

“So did I, at first.”

“I tried so hard.” John’s voice broke on the last syllable.

Sherlock’s fingers found John’s again, and tightened around them. “I’m sorry, John. I don’t think I can do this.”

John winced. “No, I’m sorry,” he said. Sherlock was right, and he knew it, and it was destroying him. “I’ve been unfair to you.” He said it more to himself than to Sherlock.

“It’s not fair to either of us,” Sherlock said. “You have a wife and a child. I’ve been asking too much from you.” His thumb caressed the palm of John’s hand. A simple gesture, but it seemed to mean more than a hundred love letters.

John tried to get his thoughts in order. If this was his fault in any way, like Mycroft had said, it was partially his responsibility, his fault that Sherlock was lying here with a collar of purple bruises around his throat.

“I’m sorry for everything. I–” _I love you_ , John wanted to say, but thought better of it, “–I understand.”

John pressed his eyes shut and released Sherlock’s hand, letting his own hands fall into his lap. He looked up at Sherlock and tried to pull something of a smile onto his face. “Do you need anything? Can I do anything?”

Sherlock hesitated. “No. Perhaps we should...” He winced, avoiding John’s eyes. “Perhaps it's better if we cool off a bit.”

“Oh. Right.”

All John wanted was to grasp Sherlock’s hands and kiss them, entangle himself in Sherlock’s limbs, touch him all over, stroke all the sadness out of his skin, elope to a place where no one knew them, spend the rest of their lives keeping bees in a tattered cottage out in the country. But John had other responsibilities now, and he couldn’t just run off and do whatever he pleased.

He ran a hand over his face, then nodded. “Okay.” It was probably better if they took some time to come back to themselves anyway. “How about the work, the cases?”

“Let’s try to not see each other for a few weeks.” Sherlock looked back up to John. “Cool off for the next two weeks, and then reevaluate. Just... For now. To get things back to normal.”

John blinked, trying to avoid tears. “Can I text you?” His voice sounded higher than he’d expected.

Sherlock bit his lips between his teeth. “I’d rather not.”

John nodded, and Sherlock nodded, and they looked at each other for minutes, until John cleared his throat, got up from his chair and left the hospital room without saying goodbye.


	11. Vacuum / A Friday in mid-December

Thirteen days later. Their Christmas tree was up, and Olivia hadn’t slept much, and John had put his coffee mug in the wrong place or something, and Mary snapped at him, and he snapped at Mary for her frustrating focus on keeping the flat in order when they had a baby and work and a bloody Christmas tree that was leaking needles everywhere, and why was she always cleaning up instead of enjoying her time with him?

John felt like he was grappling for air, unable to find the right words to voice his discontent, not even aware of the exact nature of it. How could he make himself clear without being clear to himself? How could he make things better when he didn’t really know how?

He’d been trying to do so well over the past two weeks, to be strong and steadfast. He left his phone in the bedroom as often as he could, to suppress his constant urge to text Sherlock. He made tea for Mary even when she didn’t ask. He only cried when he was in the shower.

But it was wearing him thin, and he was running out of willpower. And today, after breakfast, after another their stupid fight over something stupid that wasn’t even important, Mary had stormed off, returned for her work bag, sniped at John some more and left with a contorted face.

 _I’m sorry_ , she texted half an hour later, when John had just dropped Olivia off at the nursery. _Shouldn’t have snapped at you._

 _Me too_ , he replied.

He was. He was so sorry that it was trying to break itself out through his breastbone. About everything that had happened over the past few months, about all those things he couldn’t tell her. Was it even possible to physically hurt from sorrow?

 _I’ll be home late,_ he added, _but let’s try to make it up to each other this weekend._

_That sounds lovely. I’ll see you tonight, or tomorrow morning if you’re home really late._

John didn’t have any plans for tonight, but spending an evening home with Mary was more than he could face right now. He hadn’t told her about his falling out with Sherlock, because that meant he’d have to explain why, and that would basically amount to destroying everything he’d worked so hard for, these past months. So he’d pretended to go on a case a few times over the past week. Instead, he’d gone to the library to distract himself with awful books, or to the cinema to distract himself with awful movies, or to a pub, to drink far more than he ought to.

Tomorrow morning, it would be exactly two weeks ago that he last saw Sherlock. He’d have to get through one more evening before he could contact him again. He’d find something to do. Worst case, he’d walk around the city by himself. He’d think of something. He had to.

He sat down at his computer to write his weekly column, but he couldn’t muster up the energy to even get one word on paper. Why was everything so bloody fucked up when he was just trying to do the right thing? Why did it seem like the harder he was trying to keep everything together, the more he was breaking everything down?

He was doing everything in his power to make it all work, his marriage with Mary and his friendship with Sherlock, and he wasn’t sure it was going to be enough.

He felt like he hadn’t been able to breathe since he’d last seen Sherlock, and the thought of not seeing him for another day seemed almost physically impossible.

Somehow, he got through most of the day. Half an hour before Mary was supposed to be home, he dropped Olivia off at the nursery and took the tube towards Baker Street.

After a few stops, about halfway there, John came to his senses. What the fuck was he doing? He wasn’t supposed to see Sherlock. He wasn’t supposed to do this. One more day.

In a panic, he bolted off the tube at the nearest stop and leaned down against a pillar, hands covering his face. When he’d managed to calm his breath, he walked up the stairs and exited the tube station. He walked into a small park and sat down on a bench, hands stuffed into his pockets against the cold. He hoped for thoughts that would bring him out of this strange, almost hypnotised state, but nothing presented itself. After what must have been ten minutes, a bird landed near his feet and started pecking at some scraps of wood. It was small and black. Sherlock would surely know what kind of bird it was.

He was empty. He had completely given himself, trying to do the right thing. He was completely spent.

When he couldn’t feel his toes anymore, he started walking back to the tube, and as if in a dream, took the tube to Baker Street instead of back home. He hadn’t announced himself, but he hoped Sherlock would be home.

The key to their apartment – no, Sherlock’s apartment – was still on his keychain. He’d never bothered to remove it. When he unlocked the front door, he heard Sherlock playing the violin.

Sherlock didn’t look up when he entered. John wasn’t sure what to say, a forbidden guest, the wrong person at the wrong time, so he just hung up his coat, made tea, and sat down in his chair, looking at Sherlock, hoping he was invisible. The violin melodies whirled around him, calming his nerves.

He felt safe here. Safer than at home with Mary, where he was under constant scrutiny, where a wrong word or action could earn him an exasperated look that was more jarring than similar looks from Sherlock, which were always lined with affection.

Would it be better with Sherlock? Would he be happier?

Did he even have a choice?

John closed his eyes and shook his head. Of course he had a choice. Mary was his wife, they had a family together. He wasn’t the type to just run off on a whim with someone else. All right, things weren’t perfect, but what could you expect with a baby and all the crying and all the nappy-changing and _of course_ they were both moody and crabby and _of course_ they didn’t have proper conversations anymore like they used to. That didn’t matter. Those would all be temporary inconveniences.

The grass was always greener on the other side, wasn’t it? It would be the same with Sherlock after a while. They’d get bored and angry with each other, surely. They weren’t even a couple and John was already angry with Sherlock much of the time.

No, there was no contest, he’d have to suck it up, ride it out, stay with Mary and it would just be a matter of time until Sherlock wouldn’t be the first thing on his mind in the morning anymore.

When Sherlock stopped playing and turned around to John, he must have seen something in John’s eyes, because he stepped closer, slowly, a look of sadness and longing on his face. John got up from his chair and opened his mouth, but couldn’t say anything. _I’m sorry_ , he wanted to say. Nothing came out. _I’m sorry for bothering you again. I’m being unfair._

Sherlock stepped closer and took John’s hand. He looked up at John from underneath a furrowed brow, as if to ask _is this okay?_ , and in response, John turned his hand to weave his fingers through Sherlock’s. They stood there for a few minutes, and the vacuum inside John’s chest started to fill with air again, bit by bit, breath by breath.

John sighed, which seemed to rouse Sherlock from his thoughts, and their eyes met. Almost involuntarily, John raised their entwined hands to his lips, and kissed the back of Sherlock’s hand. Softly.

Sherlock drew him closer, let go of his hand, and wrapped his arms around him. Safe. Warm. They stood like that for what seemed like hours, unmoving, until John pulled back.

“I’m sorry,” he said. His voice sounded like it was coming from far away. “I wasn’t supposed to come here.” _I miss you_ , he wanted to say, _please let me come home_. _Please help me find a way to fix this._

“I’m sorry for sending you away,” Sherlock said softly.

John looked at him, and of all the things he wanted to say, he could only manage, “Thank you.”


	12. Breaking / A Tuesday in early January

They tried to get things back to normal. Not talking about any of it. Not touching each other. Not doing playful experiments. Barely looking each other in the eye. They succeeded, more or less.

It all had a hollow facade of normalcy that reminded John a bit of when his father had died. He’d felt like a statue in the middle of a storm, all alone and unable to move, with things going on around him that he had absolutely no power over. When his mum had died a few years later, it had been completely different, with Harry crying and screaming and fights over the inheritance. Strangely, that had made it more bearable.

John wondered if he should cry and scream and fight, but he had no idea how, even if it might be better. He was calcified, unable to make a sound.

On a bleak Tuesday night in January, an idle evening at 221B, John was too tired to fight it anymore.

He looked into the fire, his head leaning on his fist, elbow perched on the armrest of his chair. Everything should be all right. Olivia was asleep in John’s old room upstairs, baby monitor next to her. Mary was having a girls’ night out with her friends. The detective and his blogger, sitting in their armchairs, sharing the same comfortable silence they’d shared for years.

It was excruciating.

John had always been praised for his perseverance, his steadfastness, his strong moral principle. He always tried so hard to do things because they made sense, to do the right things. But it seemed like the harder he tried, the less sense things made.

He’d become an army doctor because he wanted to save lives, in some sort of ill-considered attempt to be a hero. Instead, it had brought him an almost lethal shot to the shoulder and a bad case of PTSD. When he’d done his best to move on after Sherlock had jumped, it had brought him a wife who had deceived him, and an almost lethal shot to his best friend. And then of course he’d forgiven her. He’d promised her his loyalty, because she was carrying his child. And he wasn’t happy. She didn’t make him happy.

John squeezed his eyes shut. A shaky inhale. A muttered curse stuck in the back of his throat.

“John.” Sherlock’s voice was uncertain, soft, higher than usual. “What’s wrong?”

John couldn’t manage to curl the corners of his mouth upwards in response. He pursed his lips, drew his hand over his face, opened his eyes to look at Sherlock. “I don’t know what to do, Sherlock.” His voice sounded constricted, pushed into a corner by his feelings.

“Oh.” Sherlock’s face relaxed before forming an awkward smile. “About?”

John took a deep breath, exhaled through pursed lips, blinked, before managing to speak. “Us. I don’t think it’s working. I don’t think I can do it.”

Sherlock looked confused, or maybe afraid, his eyebrows drawn up, his eyes open and vulnerable. “If you need more time to yourself…”

“Staying away from each other didn’t work either,” John said. “And being around each other like this…” He shook his head. “I don’t think I can fight it anymore,” he said, almost soundless. Gritted teeth. Clenched jaw. Muscles tense, as if he literally had to hold on tight to avoid being torn apart. “You. My feelings for you. Which… Oh, fuck.” He shook his head in silence. He couldn’t say it. Once he’d say it, he’d have to accept the consequences.

He didn’t want Olivia to grow up in a broken family. He’d worked so hard to avoid that. In his dreams, his daydreams even, he’d imagined easy ways out. Some sort of spontaneous _deus ex machina_ solution. But this was reality, and Mary was there, and Olivia was there, and John had collapsed into himself for fear of letting anything slip, a word, a touch, and it was breaking him down.

He’d tried to push it away for as long as he could. Every time Mary looked at him, he only felt a sharp hope that she’d miss the resignation in his eyes, or mistake it for something akin to affection.

A sudden need for confirmation. “As long as you’re still…” Fear of finishing the sentence. Fear of saying things out loud. He looked at Sherlock. Scared. Anxious.

“John, I…” Sherlock’s face reflected the concern John felt deep in his chest. “You know that whenever you want…” He hesitated. “I’ll be there. I want you, John.”

They looked at each other, and John finally let his mind curl around the idea of a future with this insane, beautiful, broken person. They’d drive each other mad. But he couldn’t think of a single thing he’d ever wanted more in his life.

He clenched his lips between his teeth, grimaced, then nodded. “It’s just. There’s a lot of.” Even his words felt broken. “Things to. Well. Consequences.”

A beat of silence. “But you want to do this?” Sherlock’s voice was small, a question in its tone.

“Maybe. Probably. I think.”

They sat there, looking at each other, grateful for the flicker of the hearth, cloaking the expressions on their faces. Sherlock, tense, anxious, uncertain. John, aware of the wetness on his face, his eyes likely rimmed crimson and lined with concern.

The words, almost spoken, between them, thick as smoke.

John went home late enough to avoid Mary that evening, laying Olivia in her cot carefully. This might be the last night that her parents were still a couple. John stroked her curls and considered what her life would look like with divorced parents.

At least they would be happy.

Olivia would have a happier life with happier parents.

John pretended to be asleep when Mary left for work the next morning, and it wasn’t until that evening, when she came home with takeaway dinner, that he found himself faced with the conversation he’d dreaded and anticipated more than anything else in his life.

He could still go back, couldn’t he?

He grabbed plates and cutlery and tried, one last time, to muster up the courage to fight for his marriage.

They sat down at the table, and John tried to eat, but he couldn’t bring himself to take a bite.

He swallowed hard, trying to bite down the tension in his chest that wanted desperately to work its way out, materialising as tears. Everything he’d tried to do right had seemed to make things worse instead. It was done. It was done.

He was tired, bloody fucking tired, and he couldn’t figure out what to do anymore to keep fighting.

For a few blissful minutes, Mary sat opposite him, eyes fixated on an empty spot on the table between their plates, working her way through a plate of excellent takeaway Chinese, without noticing her husband crumbling into pieces right in front of her.

Olivia was sound asleep in her little cot next to the couch. Olivia was perfect. Olivia was the only perfect thing still left in John’s life. Even when she screamed all through the night. Even when she produced substances of variable densities and non-existent colours that would leak over sweaters and bedding and upholstery. Still, all through it, Olivia glowed, and she crooned, and she smelled of something magical, and she was unimaginably soft, and she was the only thing that still made sense in John’s life.

It wasn’t that they were abominable partners, he and Mary. But there was a coldness between them, and an absence inside John that Mary couldn’t fill.

She had helped him survive when he was lost in grief and mourning. She might have been the only person who’d kept him from taking his own life. He owed her his loyalty. He owed her a family. But he owed himself something, too: being able to breathe again.

Mary looked up, blinked for a few silent moments as she observed John’s face. He wondered what she saw. Misery? Despair? Regret? All of the above? He braced himself, ready to face whatever would come next, the beginning of the end.

She pulled up one corner of her mouth, her eyes dull with fatigue. “Tired as well?”

“Yes,” he managed to say. Tired of fighting his feelings, tired of doing the right thing. Fucking exhausted.

“At least she’s sleeping better now.”

John pursed his lips. Christ. He could just force a smile and nod, delay the inevitable ending that lay in front of them. They could just set themselves on the couch, watch some telly, cuddle a bit with Olivia when she’d wake up later that evening. John had become an expert at playing his role of tired father. Good enough to fool his own wife.

It would be unbearable, excruciating, and yet entirely possible.

“Look, I…” He hesitated. Heard himself pull in a shaky breath.

How did people do this? How did people tell their wives, the mothers of their children, that it was over? Which words did they use?

“I can’t–” the words came slowly, “–do this anymore,” forcing their way out syllable by syllable through the almost-solidified concrete of the shell he’d built up in the past year.

She rested her chin on one of her hands. “Do what, love?”

He looked at his plate. “Us.” He swallowed and looked back up at her.

“What?” She blinked. Her eyes hardened. “No.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you…” She frowned at him. “I need you to say it, John.”

“I’m breaking up with you.” The words came easier than he’d expected.

She scoffed. “Come on. What are you going to do without me?”

And there it was. The confirmation. Yes. He was very ready to let go of this. Of her. Of the hateful remarks.

“I’m not sure,” he managed. “But I’ll be fine.” A sudden need to console her. “So will you.” She was his wife, after all. The mother of his child. “We’ve not been happy.”

“That’s not my fault entirely.”

He made a face. “I suppose that’s fair. And I’m sorry. But I think we’ll both be happier apart. Or with other people.” Eager to steer the conversation away from that topic, he continued, “We’ll take care of this together, in a grown-up way, and we’ll make sure Olivia gets the best life that she can.”

Mary shook her head, scorn in her voice. “You never even thought of Olivia in all this, did you?”

John scoffed. “Of course I did. She’s all I’m thinking of. She’ll have a better life with happier parents. I know my childhood would have been a lot happier if my parents had divorced instead of continuing to fight their whole lives.”

Mary was silent, eyes focused on the table in front of her. John grimaced. Of course she couldn’t react to that. Of course she still didn’t trust him enough to tell him anything about her own childhood. Had their relationship ever even had a chance?

Mary looked at him, her eyes cold. “You better believe that Olivia will stay with me.”

“Come on. Don’t make it harder on yourself.” He felt calmer than he probably should. “I know you’re a good person, and I know you want the best for our child. And–” a sudden burst of inspiration, “–I’m sure Mycroft can help with the paperwork.” He didn’t care if his smile might look dangerous.

She narrowed her eyes. “Are you threatening me?”

“I will do whatever is necessary to ensure the best future for our child. And until proven otherwise, that is to spend an equal amount of time with both her parents.” He let his voice turn soft again. “We’ll work something out.”

She sighed, and her face contorted into something between sorrow and aggression. Before John could figure out which of the two was prevalent, her face fell, and crumpled up into tears.

She held out both hands, and John took them. He didn’t know if her sadness was genuine. Maybe this was her way of guilting him into staying with her. But all he could think of was how he and Sherlock had sat here, only weeks ago, at this table, holding hands, and it made something leap up into his throat, something hopeful and expectant.

Fuck. It felt strange and contradictory to think about this while he wasn’t even properly done breaking up with his wife.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I have loved you. In a way, I still do. I never thought I’d have this, you know. A marriage. A family.”

She wiped her cheeks. “Neither did I. But it’s not enough for you, is it?” She looked at him, her lips tense and trembling.

“I wanted it to be.” He looked at their hands, intertwined on the table, then back up at her. “Lord knows I tried.”

She winced, took a shaky breath. “But your heart belongs to someone else.”

“I, er…” He swallowed. Fuck, what did she know? And for how long had she known?

“Please.” Her voice quivered. “You owe me the truth.”

He hesitated, then nodded. “I suppose that’s fair. I… Yeah.” He took a deep breath. “I am in love with someone else.”

She inhaled deeply, then took her hands out of his and wiped the tears off her face. “Have you ever been honest with me?”

He made a face. “Have we ever been honest with each other?”

“I suppose that’s fair.” She almost smiled. “God. Somewhere I think I’ve always known.” She looked at him, her head tilted to the side. “Did I ever really have a chance?”

He considered the question. “I don’t know. But I will always be grateful for how you saved my life when Sherlock was dead.”

“And I’m grateful that you didn’t toss me aside right away when he came back.”

He grimaced. “I really did try. I really did.” He took a drink from his glass of water to calm the quiver in his throat. “I don’t think I’ve been honest with myself, for the longest time.”

She leaned back in her chair, looked at him. “We weren’t terrible together, you know.”

“True,” he said. “But not terribly good, either.”

John made tea, and they sat on the couch, and cried, and spoke about the past. About how they met at work, and how Mary had charmed her way into John’s heart (her words) and how she’d almost bollocksed everything up by choosing a really terrible restaurant for their first date (his words). About the wedding. The surprise of Olivia. Their honeymoon.

Mary’s almost-assassination of Sherlock remained unspoken.


	13. Ending / A Wednesday in early January

John offered Mary their bed and took a spare blanket out of the linen closet to sleep in the guest room. The mattress was lumpy, and a freezing draft kept tickling the back of his neck. For a moment he’d considered going directly to Baker Street to spend the night, but that felt wrong, too fast. Even if he’d take his old room, it would still feel like he was moving in with Sherlock immediately, and shouldn’t you observe some sort of mourning period, so to speak, between the end of one relationship and the start of another?

How did people do this? Should he take his wedding ring off right away or wait until everything was finalised? Did they need a lawyer? Was it going to be messy? How should they go about dividing their time with Olivia? Was there a Getting Divorced For Dummies? John made a mental note to ask Greg for tips. Greg had gone through this bloody mess before. Maybe they could exchange some advice. Have a pint together and talk about their lives, like two old men with failed marriages.

After going through the same thoughts again for the thousandth time, John sat up and rubbed his eyes. He grabbed his phone from the floor next to the bed. Bloody three in the bloody morning. Still hours to go until the rest of the world woke up.

 _Hey_ , he texted Sherlock. _Are you up, by any chance?_

John stared at the screen for minutes. No answer.

 _I’m a single man now_ , he added. _Just thought I’d let you know. Not sure how any of this works, but I’d really like to see you soon._

He padded into the kitchen and made a cup of tea. If he wasn’t sleeping, he could just as well make himself as comfortable as he could. The sound of the kettle made him wince – hopefully he wouldn’t wake up Mary or Olivia – but the warm tea soothed his throat, and warmed his chest, and he tried to feel a bit like himself again, whoever that was.

God. A soon-to-be-divorcee.

Still, his general feeling of disappointment at being a man with a failed marriage was lightened considerably by the undercurrent of warmth and excitement in his chest. He was finally able to be with Sherlock, after all those years of being blind to each other’s feelings, to their own feelings even. It was finally going to happen.

He went back to bed after he’d finished his tea, and ended up dozing off, only to wake up to early in the morning, to the distant sounds of Mary pottering around the kitchen. It took him half a second to orient himself. He wasn’t in his bed.

Oh. Right. The guest room. He wasn’t with Mary anymore. He was going to see Sherlock today. The first day of their life together. John grinned, even before he’d opened his eyes.

He groaned at the ache in his back as he lifted himself up to a sitting position, and grabbed his phone from the floor. Three texts from Sherlock. John rolled his eyes at the first one:

_Good. SH_

The next two texts were a bit more verbose.

_I suspect you won’t be single for long. SH_

That one made John’s heart flutter. And finally,

_I’ve asked Mrs Hudson to make up the bed in your old room. SH_

John chuckled. Leave it to Sherlock to be impolite and far too direct and considerate all at the same time.

He sat up, stretched his back, and texted Sherlock back.

_I can’t wait to see you. What are you doing later today?_

His heart jumped at the sight of three dots, signaling that Sherlock was typing. It seemed like ages before a text appeared.

_Helping you move back into Baker Street. SH_

John bit his lip and tried to stop his toes from drumming against the floor. He rolled his eyes at himself. Was he actually nervous? For something that wasn’t even a date? Worst of all: for something that wasn’t even a date _and_ of which he was already quite sure of a positive outcome?

He’d finally really lost his mind, then.

 _Looking forward to it_ , he answered. _Give me a few hours to get ready._

In the bathroom, he winced at his own reflection. He looked particularly old today, bleary eyes and wrinkles under a messy grey mop of hair. Sherlock would still have him, though, right? Sherlock wouldn’t mind? _Whenever you want_ , Sherlock had said.

Still, John did his best to freshen up as well as he could, scrubbing himself clean in the shower. While he was washing himself, he wondered what the day would bring, how far they would go. There would definitely be kissing, and then? He felt very inexperienced, all of a sudden. There were so many things he was looking forward to, but they made him equally eager and nervous.

He hadn’t really thought much about the practicalities of sex with a man. Well, yes, he had, but only in the throes of masturbatory passion, never in the logistic sense of actually finding himself in bed – or in the shower, or on the couch, or the kitchen table – with another man.

Would he be expected to fuck, or be fucked? To be honest, he felt that he wouldn’t mind either. God, giving himself up to Sherlock like that, being pinned to a mattress – or a shower wall, or a couch, or a kitchen table – or finding himself in that other role, sliding himself in and out of Sherlock… Yes. Either way would be fine, _more_ than fine, fantastic.

A definite tension had pooled up in his groin at those thoughts, and he decided he could have himself a quick wank to calm himself down. He didn’t want to come in his pants at the first kiss, after all. The kiss that he had only allowed himself to look forward to since yesterday. And now that he was finally allowed to look forward to kissing Sherlock, to putting his hands on Sherlock’s body, he couldn’t wait.

John brought himself to glorious completion to the thoughts of everything he wanted to do with Sherlock. He found himself whistling while he toweled himself off, and he figured he’d try to do something different with his hair, combing it into a sideways swoop instead of his usual patted-down style. He looked at his reflection and grinned. Still no match for Sherlock’s ethereal beauty, but at least he was looking better than before his shower.

All right. Clothes on. Into battle.

Although his and Mary’s flat was nicely furnished, it was really only a few shelves of clothes and toiletries, a stack of books and his laptop that John could call his own, and it didn’t take him more than half an hour to work everything into a couple of boxes and a travel bag.

Shit. Sherlock had texted John to be ready with his stuff at three o’clock in the afternoon, and there were far too many hours left until that moment. John and Mary were tense around each other, and after John had spent a couple of hours fussing and being nervous, Mary burst out in a fit of temper around noon. John really couldn’t blame her. He’d have done far worse if it had been his soon-to-be-ex-wife getting ready to move in with her new lover.

He fled the house with Olivia, taking her out for a stroll. In the park, a young woman came up to them and cooed over Olivia, then fluttered her eyelashes at John.

Jesus. And he hadn’t even taken off his wedding ring yet.

John brushed the woman off, but then the wedding ring conundrum kept tugging at his mind. He looked at his hands. Should he take his ring off? Officially he was still married. But in every other sense, his relationship with Mary was over. He was a single man. It seemed a sort of official thing to do, though, taking his ring off. He thought back to his wedding, less than two years ago. Bloody hell. If only he’d known, back then, about the pregnancy, about Mary’s deceit, about Sherlock’s feelings. He could have saved all of them so much time and heartbreak.

Just when he was walking back home, Mary texted him: _I don’t think I can do this. Watching you go. Could you drop Olivia off at the nursery before you go? I’ll pick her up from there later this afternoon._

Perhaps it shouldn’t feel like a relief, but it did. Last night, John and Mary had agreed that for now, Olivia would stay with Mary for a day or three to give John time to unpack and get settled in at 221B, and then she’d stay with John for a couple of days, and after that they’d make new plans and arrangements.

John rerouted to the nursery, sent Mary a confirmation text, walked home, and opened the door to his flat. Mary’s flat, now. He inhaled deeply and looked around the place where he’d lived for the past two and a half years. His stack of boxes was already in the hallway. Nothing here that was still keeping him.

His heart fluttered in his chest at the thought of moving back to Baker Street, to sharing a flat with Sherlock again. It would be the same as the old days, except absolutely different. They’d finally be able to properly touch each other, say the things they’d always kept hidden. No boundaries. Nothing between them.

It was an unceremonious moment, in the middle of a living room where he was already starting to feel like a guest, when he took his wedding ring off. He hesitated, then put it in a side pocket of his travel bag.

The minutes until 3 o’clock ticked by excruciatingly slow, but John managed to busy himself by scrubbing the flat to a cleaner state than he’d ever seen it before. Perhaps he felt like he owed it to Mary to leave the flat as neat as possible, or perhaps it was only a way to keep his trembling hands occupied.

As if in a dream, the last minutes passed, and John was actually startled when the doorbell rang.

His mind ran overtime while he went to open the door. God, how did this work? Should he kiss Sherlock on the mouth right away, now that they finally could? Or should that wait for a special moment? Did he just say hello? What was expected from him?

John couldn’t quell his grin when he opened the door and Sherlock stood there, also grinning like a maniac.

“Hello,” they said simultaneously.

Sherlock took off his gloves and stuffed them in the pockets of his long coat, his shining eyes not leaving John’s.

“Why don’t you come in,” John said, suddenly a bit weak in the knees.

He stepped back to let Sherlock in, and when Sherlock passed him, their hands brushed against each other.

John closed the door and turned around to face Sherlock. Finally, they were alone in the house, and there was nothing standing between them anymore, nothing looming over them.

“Hi,” Sherlock said, his eyes wandering over John’s face. His voice was a bit unsteady.

John stepped closer to him and smiled, heart fluttering in his chest. “Hey,” he said softly.

Sherlock lifted one of his hands to touch John’s cheek, to stroke it softly, while he looked down at John. The point where Sherlock’s fingers touched John’s face felt electric, like all of John’s nerves were concentrated there, and John couldn’t help but close his eyes and move his face towards Sherlock’s hand, cradling his cheek into Sherlock’s soft fingers.

“I can’t believe we’re really doing this,” John murmured.

“We are.” There was a smile in Sherlock’s voice.

John opened his eyes again to see Sherlock’s face tilted slightly down towards him. Yes. This was happening. John tilted his face up, and their lips met, tentatively at first.

Sherlock’s lips were as soft as John had imagined, but warmer somehow, and John’s hand moved up as if on its own accord, to cup the back of Sherlock’s head, to move Sherlock’s mouth closer to his own. Their lips moved against each other’s slowly, and when John opened his lips slightly to slide one of Sherlock’s between them, he felt Sherlock exhale through his nose, warm against his cheek.

John combed his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. When Sherlock moaned softly and opened his lips further, John couldn’t quell a gasp in the back of his throat. Sherlock moved the hand that he held against John’s cheek further back. The stroke of Sherlock’s fingers against John’s neck was electrifying.

God, this was amazing. Everything about this was amazing.

Just then, they were interrupted by a rap on the door. John pulled back half an inch and frowned, and Sherlock gave a discontented hum. John shrugged, chose to ignore the knock on the door, and moved his hand to Sherlock’s cheek.

“Fuck them,” John whispered, and kissed Sherlock again.

From the other side of the door, a voice sounded. “I know you’re in, doctor Watson. Don’t compel me to use force to enter the house.”

John huffed a laugh against Sherlock’s lips. “Your brother, really?” He pulled back and cocked an eyebrow at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes.

“I had nothing to do with this,” Sherlock said. He leaned down and kissed John again.

“Doctor Watson.” Even through the front door, Mycroft’s voice sounded ominous.

John rested his forehead against Sherlock’s. “Jesus.” He inhaled deeply. “You better believe that we’ll continue this later, love.”

“We’ll avenge ourselves, somehow,” Sherlock muttered against John’s lips. “I’ll work out a scheme. Éclairs filled with shaving foam, possibly.”

John chuckled and pulled back. Sherlock looked radiant, lips and cheeks flushed pink, his eyes bright and shining. The thought that he could kiss those lips again soon – very, _very_ soon, if he had any say in the matter – was the only thing that made this interruption even remotely bearable.

He took a breath and opened the door to reveal Mycroft standing on his doorstep with a haughty smile on his face.

“ _So_ glad to see you, Mycroft,” he said, making sure to sound sufficiently sarcastic.

Mycroft’s eyes shifted back and forth between John and Sherlock. “John. Brother mine. I believe congratulations are in order.”

John had half a mind to close the door in his face, but instead, he smiled back, as politely as he could muster. “What are you doing here?”

“There are certain aspects of this whole–” Mycroft’s look soured, “–situation, that I feel I should have a role in taking care of. May I come in?”

Without waiting for John’s answer, Mycroft stepped past him and Sherlock into the hallway and walked further into the kitchen.

“That’s not often used as a rhetorical question,” John muttered.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stalked after Mycroft. “While I appreciate that you’re lowering yourself to the role of administrative clerk, I would rather we take care of this at another time.”

John followed them into the kitchen, eager to placate the Holmes brothers. “Boys, boys.” He cleared his throat. “Mycroft, while I appreciate your assistance, I’m not sure we need it this urgently.”

Mycroft turned around and scowled at Sherlock. “I will not have my brother romantically involved with someone who is still married to an ex-assassin.” His voice was sharp, and he pulled his lips into a thin smile. “Mummy wouldn’t approve. Neither would our life insurance.”

John scoffed. “You’ve actually got life insurance?”

“Yes.” Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “If you’ll believe that we found a company willing to insure this man’s life.”

“Hang on.” John shook his head. “One step back. You’ve arranged for, what? Divorce papers?”

“Divorce papers, last will and testament, deeds to the house, draft versions of child arrangements, decree absolute. The whole lot of it.”

A weight seemed to lift off of John’s chest. There was something to be said for taking care of this immediately, although he would much rather be snogging Sherlock on the couch right now.

He looked at the Holmes brothers, who were scowling at each other, and it almost made him laugh. He laid his hand on Sherlock’s upper arm, and Sherlock broke the staring contest with Mycroft to look at him.

John leaned closer to Sherlock and pulled his face into an apologetic smile. “We’ll have him out of here as soon as we can, and then we’ll be off to Baker Street.”

“I’d much rather have him out of here now.” Sherlock lowered his voice and leaned down to speak softly in John’s ear. “I had quite different ideas of what we’d be doing at this moment.”

John exhaled hard, his stomach suddenly all the way up in his throat. “We’ll make haste, then.”

Within a few minutes, Mycroft had laid out a number of forms and stacks of paperwork on the kitchen table. While John signed everything that needed signing, Sherlock hovered at his side, brushing his fingers along John’s arms every now and then.

When John had finally managed to finish everything, Mycroft stood up from the table, gathered up the forms and looked at Sherlock and John with a content smile on his face. “Glad this is all taken care of. Do you need any assistance–”

“No,” Sherlock and John interrupted.

Mycroft chuckled. “All the same, I have a car waiting for you downstairs to take your things to Baker Street. It’s your choice whether you choose to use it or not.”

John inhaled deeply and got up from his chair. “Thanks, Mycroft.” Though the interruption had been far from welcome, it was a definite relief to have all the administrative stuff out of the way. He moved to stand next to Sherlock, who put a hand on the small of his back.

Mycroft’s gaze was softer than usual, and he nodded, looked at them for a few seconds, then turned around on his heels and stalked off, umbrella waving in one hand, suitcase in the other.

When the front door closed, Sherlock moved in front of John. “Now then,” he crooned, taking John’s head in his hands, “where were we?”

John kissed him briefly, then leaned his forehead against Sherlock’s. “I know what I’d rather be doing, but taking Mycroft’s car to Baker Street might not be a bad idea. The quicker we get this over with, the more time we can spend doing god-knows-what to each other.”

Sherlock scowled at him. “If I knew you defer to my brother, I wouldn’t have bothered.”

John chuckled. “Oh yes, you would have.”

Sherlock groaned in frustration, then pulled John towards him and kissed him, not softly now, but with ardour.

Half a minute later, Sherlock pulled back and muttered a resigned “Yes, I would.”

John inhaled deeply to catch his breath, kissed him once more, and then stepped back, with all the willpower he could muster. “All right then.”

They carried John’s boxes downstairs to a sleek black van that was idling downstairs, and a silent, sunglassed driver brought them to Baker Street. On the way, he and Sherlock held hands across the back seat. It reminded John of the time they’d held hands at his kitchen table – Mary’s kitchen table, now – when they were skirting boundaries and when everything was still so uncertain.

John looked over at Sherlock, who was looking out the window. They were together now. Finally.


	14. Beginning / a Wednesday night in early January

The driver helped them move John’s boxes up to his room, and Sherlock made a fire in the hearth while John put the kettle on.

John leaned against the countertop and looked over at Sherlock, who sat kneeled in front of the fireplace. Their comfortable chairs, opposite each other in front of the mantel, the place where they belonged. The tattered couch. The busy, messy shelves, the wall with its ridiculous old-fashioned wallpaper and the bullet holes from when Sherlock wasn’t doing well.

It felt like home, already, more so than John had ever felt in the grey-tinted, square-shaped flat he’d shared with Mary.

When John had put two mugs of tea on the living room table and when Sherlock had a beautiful fire going, they stepped close to each other in the middle of the living room.

John looked up at Sherlock, the dark curls over the sharpness of his face. There was a wistfulness in Sherlock’s eyes.

John cupped Sherlock’s cheek with his hand. “Hey, are you okay?”

“Yes.” Sherlock’s voice sounded fragile. “I’m just…” He bit his lips between his teeth for a second. “I’m just really happy we’re finally doing this.”

John smiled and brought his hand down to weave his fingers together with Sherlock’s. “So am I.” He tilted his head up to kiss Sherlock.

It was every bit as good as their first kiss, earlier this afternoon in John’s old flat. They moved their lips over each other’s, and this time Sherlock was the first to open his mouth and caress John’s lower lip with his tongue. John moaned into Sherlock’s mouth and moved in more eagerly, sliding his tongue between Sherlock’s lips.

With a soft gasp, Sherlock opened his mouth and slid his tongue against John’s. He let go of John’s hand and wrapped his arms around John, one hand sliding up to cup John’s head, the other downwards to the curve of his lower back. John moved one of his hands up to caress Sherlock’s cheek, the other to Sherlock’s back. They explored each other’s mouths, kissing fervently, interspersed with soft nips to each other’s lips.

When John’s neck started to hurt – he suddenly felt for all of his ex-girlfriends who were shorter than him – they moved to the couch, legs tangled together as they sat down as close to each other as possible. John kissed Sherlock’s neck, and found that a certain spot below and beneath Sherlock’s ear was especially sensitive. He kissed and nipped at it until Sherlock gasped out in feigned frustration and grabbed John’s head with both hands to bring their mouths together again.

While they kissed, Sherlock’s hands wandered over John’s body and to his arse, and John responded likewise. It was amazing to feel Sherlock’s sharp bones, the flat planes of his muscles, the stringy lines of his tendons. For a second, John felt slightly unnerved at the lack of breasts on the body beneath his hands, although that moment of awkwardness was dispersed quickly when he found out how sensitive Sherlock’s nipples were, even through his dress shirt.

It was all so unfamiliar, a man’s body under his hands, and John was feeling nervous and eager and aroused and anxious, all at the same time. It was almost funny. Here he was, a man well into his forties, snogging like there was no tomorrow, feeling inexperienced and light-headed like a bloody teenager. He savoured every second of it.

When they found themselves out of breath, they leaned back on the couch, looked at the fire and drank their tea, which had gone quite cold. John kissed Sherlock’s fingers one by one while Sherlock told him about the last few cases he’d done without John.

Then, when they had finished their tea, Sherlock pulled John onto his lap, which turned out to be a rather nice addition to the already spectacular activity of kissing. Sherlock mouthed at John’s neck and slid his hands under John’s jumper, which made John flinch at first – “Jesus, Sherlock, cold fingers!” – but that was all forgotten when Sherlock moved his hands over John’s bare torso. The feeling of skin on skin made John moan into Sherlock’s mouth.

“How far do you want to go?” Sherlock murmured against John’s neck.

“God, there’s…” John’s breath hitched when Sherlock’s fingers skimmed his nipples. “I don’t know. There’s so much to explore.”

“And we’ve got a lifetime to do so.” Sherlock pulled back and let his thumbs stroke along John’s cheeks. “I understand if you want to take it slow.”

John inhaled deeply in an attempt to catch his breath. Sherlock did have a point. John’s relationship with Mary felt so close, still.

“Maybe I would,” John said. “I don’t want our first time to be tainted by memories of…” He cleared his throat. “Well, you know.” He didn’t want to say her name. Not now.

“Yes, of course.” Sherlock’s voice sounded businesslike. “I’ve been advised by practically every party that entering a new relationship is reason enough to take it slow.”

“Wait, practically every… Who did you talk to, Sherlock?”

Sherlock averted his gaze. “I might have googled some things. Just… As preparation. And maybe read some magazines. And… And maybe talked to Molly.” He winced. “And Mrs Hudson.”

John smiled at Sherlock’s rather awkward look, all disheveled curls and pink cheeks and shyness in his eyes.

“I don’t mind,” he said, cupping Sherlock’s cheek and lifting his head back up. “I am really enjoying kissing you, though.”

“Oh, are you now?” Sherlock’s tone was playful.

“I rather am, love.” John bit his lip. “Thought you’d have deduced.”

“Mmm.” Sherlock kissed his lips. “So am I.” He moved his head down and kissed John’s collarbone. “Although I wouldn’t have been averse to–” his breath dropped to a low baritone while he moved his lips against John’s ear, “–tasting you all over and completely unraveling you with my hands and my tongue.” He pulled back, took a breath. “But we’ve got enough time for that.” His tone was all normal again, almost cool, but with a definite teasing undertone.

John’s skin tingled, and he couldn’t help half-moaning, half-chuckling. “Jesus, Sherlock. I…” He tried to pull his thoughts together. “I’d really like that. I am really, really looking forward to everything we’re going to do over the next few days.”

“And weeks,” Sherlock said. “And years.” He smiled. “I love you.”

“God, I love you, Sherlock.” John’s chest swelled at the expectation of all the time they could finally spend together, and he moved his lips onto Sherlock’s, eager to taste the sweetness of his words.

They ended up forgetting about dinner, and having a couple of cream crackers instead with another cup of tea. Not that they were hungry. Yes, hungry for each other, hungry for skin and hands and lips.

It was well after midnight, and the fire was down to embers, when John took a deep breath and pulled back.

“We should probably go to sleep, love.”

“Mmm, no.” Sherlock nipped at John’s neck. “Sleep is for regular people. You’re far from regular.”

John raised one of the corners of his mouth in a half-smile. “Look, I need to conserve some energy to continue down this path tomorrow.”

Sherlock pulled back, frowned, and nodded. “That’s a good reason, I suppose.” He narrowed his eyes. “Although if we share a bed, I expect that we’ll hardly sleep. That’ll sort of defy the purpose.”

John exhaled through pursed lips. “Well, yeah,” he said. “It makes sense, too. I guess if we were dating… If we hadn’t lived together, I might also… You know, not spend the night. Not right away.” He winced. “That’s okay, right?”

Sherlock kissed John’s forehead. “Everything is okay. As long as you’ll still be here tomorrow.”

“‘Course I will.”

“And while I am rather looking forward to waking up next to you, I do realise we’ve got a lifetime ahead to do so.”

John smiled and ran his hands softly through Sherlock’s hair. “Thanks for being so understanding, love.”

They changed into their pyjamas and brushed their teeth side by side in the bathroom, bumping their hips into each other and kissing with toothpaste-foamy lips. They stood on the doorstep, foreheads touching, sighed into each other’s mouths, exchanged soft good night kisses, and then John retreated to his room upstairs.

As he slid between the covers, John marveled at how his whole body seemed exceptionally sensitive. The echo of Sherlock’s hands was still on his face, on his chest, and in his hair. His lips were tender and swollen from all the kissing, and yet, it had seemed almost impossible to stop.

There was a memory of Mary underneath it all, but it was already fading. It was already making way for a new life, an exceptional life, with Sherlock.

How anyone could be expected to sleep after an afternoon and evening like this, John didn’t know. He’d figured they should take good care of themselves, but his body wasn’t exactly cooperating. He felt elated, every cell in his body lit up with love and adrenaline and pure bliss.

God, had it only been less than two days ago that he was married? Unhappily, he dared to admit now. And now he was – what, exactly? Dating? In a relationship? – anyway, he’d been snogging the brightest, handsomest bloke in London for hours, and they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. They’d confessed their love to each other. They’d already vaguely spoken of the rest of their lives.

It didn’t really matter what they called it, then. It was real.

When John still couldn’t sleep after an hour of thinking about Sherlock, he picked up his phone.

_You awake?_

Within seconds, three dots appeared, and John’s heart made a little jump.

_No. SH_

_It rather seems like you are._

_Perhaps I’m sleep-texting. SH_

_Are you going to keep signing your texts with your initials forever?_

_Probably. SH_

John smiled.

_Why is it that you make me smile, even when you say something that isn’t funny?_

_You didn’t think that was funny? SH_

John chuckled, and rubbed a hand over his face. Before he could reply, a new text from Sherlock popped up.

_I realise it’s just the endorphins speaking, but it appears that I miss you already. SH_

_I miss you too. It’s ridiculous. Some villain must have turned us into a pair of teenagers._

Three dots appeared, then disappeared, then appeared again.

_Am suddenly very aware of my bed being exactly the right size for two persons. SH_

John grinned and bit his lip.

_Hm. Would you call it half full or half empty?_

_Stop texting and come join me, John. SH_

_If you want. No pressure. SH_

John’s heart beat in his throat for about half a second until he made up his mind: yes, of course he was going to join Sherlock.

Oh, fuck, did he still smell fresh? Was his hair terribly disheveled? John ran his hands through his hair and rinsed his mouth quickly with a sip of water from the glass next to his bed. Oh, and his old pyjamas, his pudgy middle, the scruff on his face… Well.

John’s knees felt weak when he walked down the stairs, and he slowly opened the door to Sherlock’s bedroom. The room was almost completely dark, only lit vaguely by the street lighting through the fabric of the curtains.

“Hey,” John said softly.

“Hey,” Sherlock’s voice sounded from the bed. “Come here.” He scooted up a bit to make space for John on the left side of the bed.

John slid under the covers next to Sherlock and turned on his left side to face him. For a few seconds, they just lay there, looking at each other in the near-darkness. Sherlock’s face looked pale in the dim light, surrounded by a dark halo of hair.

Then, Sherlock spoke. “I’m glad you came.” He hesitated, then exhaled through his nose in an apparent indication of annoyance. “Christ, you’re making me say it, aren’t you?”

“What?” John frowned. “I’m not making you do anything, Sherlock.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I can’t believe how lucky I am.” He scoffed. “There. It’s true. Apparently love has rendered me incapable of staying away from cliches.”

John chuckled. “I don’t mind, Sherlock. Also, I’m the lucky one.” He reached out with his right hand and stroked Sherlock’s cheek. “You’re so beautiful. And lovely. And smart.”

Sherlock turned his face to kiss the palm of John’s hand, softly, briefly. “God, John. The fact that a man like you would even look at someone like me. You’re so kind, and brave, and beautiful, and,” he swallowed, “and sexy.”

John bit his lip. “Oh, don’t get me started on sexy.”

Sherlock took John’s hand from his cheek and kissed the knuckles. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” His mind turned to the years that were past them, the years full of confusion and fights and uncertainty. “I can’t believe how much time we wasted.”

Sherlock looked at him for a second, then wrapped his arms around John and pulled him close. “Neither can I. But we’re here now, and that’s all that matters.” He kissed John’s forehead. “I love you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, I hope you liked it! As always, I live for your kudos and comments! <3


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